March Forward

Michelle Marie McNiff, author of Striker King and Piano Lady, Amazon/ Kindle.

     Imagine a modern American family trapped in a Norman Rockwell canvas. A domineering male figure sits at the helm of a narrow oak table and clutches a basket of bread. His wife, a faceless silhouette, roosts at the opposite end. Brushed with rosy, round cheeks, a boy and a girl face each other, at the middle of the table, spooning chicken soup from their bowls.
     Now, gaze closer and watch the family come to life at the dinner table. The head of the household, the man, passes the bread rolls down the center of the long table.
     "Another hectic day at the office mill," the man says. "Dick and Harry are running routes with a deflated pigskin. I look forward to blindsiding them at the next board meeting.”
    The wife stays quiet. She isn't up to speed on the type of sport played at the office. His face hardens when he speaks of his secretary-a frequent topic of conversation at the dinner table.
    "Betty is old, clumsy and leaves behind a dotted trail of coffee around the office," he complains, chewing with his mouth open on a steak tidbit. “The woman is an expanding fossil with a hide the size of a Texas Longhorn. She needs to retire soon."
     Again, his wife remains silent, stuffing a muzzle of mashed potatoes in her mouth. She is fond of his secretary of twenty years, and prefers a Betty White classic roaming the office, rather than a voluptuous Sofia Vergara model, serving miles of cleavage. The image of the Latin bombshell bending over in a tight pencil skirt, watering a bamboo plant escapes her mind, when her son abruptly roars in laughter.
    Food morsels spew from his mouth, as he blabs on a boy named Gabriel, who stalled midterm exams, super-gluing the pencil sharpeners, behind the doors of the middle school classrooms. Gabriel then swiped a stack of tests and stuffed them in the janitor's closet. His walk to the principal's office turned into a pep rally, as students cheered in the halls.    
     Reaching for his smartphone inside his jean pocket, the boy plays a clip of the video, posted by a student on Spapchat.
     From the helm of the table, the father then invites his daughter to share her day. After gulping milk from her glass, she reports a boy had asked her to the school dance, but she doesn't like him. "He's a nerd," she retorts, as she scrapes a fork on her plate, pushing three wilted carrots to the side.         "He stalks my moves online like a chess player. After dinner, I will block him from trolling me."
     With the last crumbs left on the dinner plates, no one has asked the woman seated at the far end of the table about her day. Yet inside, she is bubbling like a fine, French champagne, desperately wanting to uncork a story. What's wrong with the life painted on the canvas? I can tell you... I was that wife, mother, close to middle-aged woman at the dinner table, not too long ago.
     I broke free from that portrait, busting out of the Norman Rockwell collection, reaching for more than a turkey roasting pan in the oven.
Trading in a floral apron, I landed again at the workplace. Of course my duties at home continued, a challenging feat, running the domestic front like the Fortune 500 company, which employed me to create marketing and public relations campaigns. Some sprint better than others, as judged in "mommy wars".
    Shamefully, I competed, comparing myself to mothers who stayed at home, and to those who worked outside the home. Eventually, I stopped the insanity of judging both sides. Power blazer or floral apron, both wardrobes require hard labor and endless sacrifice. So, how can one side of the motherhood tribe claim importance over the other? I worked full-time in a hectic newsroom, a hedonistic corporate world, alone in a home office and sometimes ... not at all. In each role, I was the same "mommy" juggling apples and oranges on a moving balancing beam, attending to the needs of two (now teenagers) children, and a husband who seemed to harness himself with a parachute, as needed. 
     Before children, we donned life preservers in the rocky sea of television news.  On a rescue ship in the newsroom, my husband and I locked hearts, fell in love during a media perfect storm. The largest story we had covered-at that time-in our journalism careers: The OJ Simpson trial. We managed our levels of sanity monitoring live feeds, crews and stories straight from Los Angeles. And during the media circus and shocking verdict, we found love and later married, the only kicker, good news story drummed from that Miami TV station. A handful of female colleagues sparked love affairs there and echo the sentiment. Working in a busy newsroom should be listed as one of the most stressful jobs, second below air traffic control.    
     Over the years, I have lost track of the Who's Who List, success rates in balancing career, love and marriage and raising children.
Life is not a gymnastics competition. Please STOP judging the technique, and the difficulty in the execution of Mommy's Wars. Can I get an AMEN to that?
     History chronicles the suffrage of women battling as domestic goddesses and battleground warriors inside the cages of social dogma fights. Beyond the timeline of events, which shape the women's rights movement, American stories of the heroine archetype document folkloric vignettes, resourceful, free-spirited women willing to die for the greater good. No, not Lynda Carter as Wonder Woman or Lindsay Wagner in The Bionic Woman, iconic figures come to mind, once idolized in my youth.
     Real life heroines, resilient women strung mother pearl necklaces on our female manifest destiny, as early as Pocahontas and Sacagawea.
Disney animated a modern version of Pocahontas, and the US Mint printed the face of Sacagawea on a shiny, gold liberty one-dollar coin.
Both Native American princesses made life-changing discoveries when they left the comforts of home, an Indian reservation and blazed unknown paths on their "heroine journey", flowering the female tribe around the world, regardless of race, creed or color. The Indian Princess freedom necklace should bind us, not divide.
     Here's a little known tidbit: a Chickasaw Princess gave us the first mother pearl on our women's liberation pendant. I unearthed the gem in the once virgin soil of Mississippi, the first state that gave women the right to legally own property. I originally had thought it was New York or Maine, but surprisingly, it's the state that almost tripped me in a spelling bee, "M-I-SSI-SSI-PPI". Spell check can't auto-correct a good memory.
    In the 1830s, The Magnolia State (or Hospitality State as previously marked on license plates) was a hot bed for immigrants settling on newly-acquired Indian lands. In a flush time of capitalism, unfortunately slave trade was part of these transactions, banks and loan sharks were lending men money for new enterprise. Fortunes were built and some collapsed like a stack of cards in greedy schemes, forcing landowners to claim bankruptcy. The banks wrangled the debtor in court, and the lawless predators lassoed property. Women became increasingly concerned losing their homestead, subsequently inheriting the debts of their husbands.
     Another Mississippian Mrs. T.B.J. Hadley, married a senator and reportedly petitioned for property laws for women. But the credit fully goes to... Betsey Love Allen, the daughter of a Chickasaw chief. She sharpened her stone-head arrows and fought against a white man.
     Prior to this, Betsey Love fell in love and married James Allen (another white man). Soon after, she became a wealthy woman when her father left her the family's property, which included livestock and slaves. The bi-cultural couple lived on the Love property; according to tribal custom and laws, a married Chickasaw woman retained ownership of all her property-land, slaves, assets, and debts. The obligations her husband incurred were considered separate, contrary to British common law and Mississippi state law. A lawyer sued Mr. Allen for an unpaid debt and foolishly seized an African-American slave, owned by Mrs. Allen. Betsey Love held a fond affinity toward her slave Toney; her capture sparked the infamous battle.
     The rest of the paper trail fell dead (I smell a man-made conspiracy) except for a landmark fossil print; the Supreme Court case, Fisher v. Allen ruled that Betsey Love Allen was allowed to keep her father's property, including Toney, not subject to the lawsuit of her husband's creditors. Some two years later, in 1839, Mississippi passed the Married Women's Property Act. Sadly, Mrs. Betsey Love Allen died before the law enacted, but her ashes spread over the tidal waves of equality when other states followed suit. The Married Women's Property Act was later amended in a series of laws that polished our pearls and gifted us pens. Women were allowed to write their wills, earn wages, own property, and finally stake a claim to their children. Hallelujah!
     And later, the mighty pen twirled; I fancy one of those antique dip pens, passing the 19th Amendment to the Constitution. More precious pearls on our freedom necklace: the infamous right to vote, reformations in higher education, and healthcare.
    The second tidal wave of feminism soared in the free-loving 60's, polishing and gifting us new pearls-shining a light on sexual discrimination, equal pay, and the reproductive rights of women. Hey, man in a suit, you can't control this body! And the waves continue to swell. To date, the last mother pearl strung on our necklace: the ban on women serving in combat lifted in 2013. Combat boot pearls.
     We, women have come come a long, long way so wear your pearl necklace proudly. Barbara Bush literally wore hers every day, more than any other First Lady. Many courageous voices, American heroines runneth my jeweled-studded goblet over, brimming with gems from Abigail Adams, Lucretia Coffin Mott, Harriet Tubman, Lucy Stone, Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Susan B Anthony- the first woman to have her face on a US coin; she never married. And, Neysa McMein, artist, illustrator and suffragist who created iconic advertising images and magazine covers.  She and Dorothy Parker once lived together and power lunched at the Algonquin Hotel. Parker's witticisms are eternally quotable and preserved at the Gonk. Continuing around the brim of feminism, the inspiring quotes of Eleanor Roosevelt, who was more than just the wife of FDR, the words of empowerment voiced by Betty Friedan and Gloria Steinem; Gloria surprised the world when she first exchanged marital vows in her golden years, at 66 years old.
     A new jewel added to my string of pearls: Oprah Winfrey. From a small stage in Chicago, to chasing her dreams on a world-wide platform, she illuminated pathways for women, encouraging us to shine our light, through the cracks of a man-made glass ceiling, shuttling onward and upward into space like the S.S Enterprise, going farther than any woman has previously gone.
    Famous or not, we women around the world have surfed massive waves of equality like champion surf boarders. Many of our sisters were lost in the causalities of revolt, burned at fiery stakes, locked away or beheaded in places like the Tower in London. These femme fatales were the early origins of social reform and the undercurrents to massive tidal waves in equality. The aftermath left fossil footprints for the next group of warriors: You and Me.
    In the tight grip of World War ll, women in Europe and America were called to serve in a wartime work force when men reported for duty, on the battlefield. And, they did more than just survive; they flew planes, WASP, Woman Air Force Service Pilots and they constructed bridges. Women took over factories and lifted (we can do it biceps) the building blocks of infrastructure. This past summer in London, I was soul searching on my own tour of discovery like Lewis and Clark, a female version, of course. And it was there where I dug up another historical, golden nugget. In the early 1940s, a group of English women largely built the Waterloo Bridge. The landmark, also known as "Ladies Bridge", is London's longest crossing over the River Thames. From the London Eye, the aerial view shows off the massive engineering and clever building materials. The "Waterloo Woman" choose Portland stone for the bridge construction... Ah, brilliant! They used their female brains, choosing a stone that is easy to clean. The back story of Waterloo Bridge might score points in Trivial Pursuit or on a TV game show like Jeopardy; however, the story is a fresh shower of inspiration for women. "We can do it!"
    Visting London, I strolled on the Waterloo Bridge and inhaled the Mariah winds of womanhood. Crossing the Waterloo, I marveled a panoramic view of the skyline of London, through the eyes of a woman's world; the battle of the sexes fought with swords, pens, brains, muscles, sexy legs, and tennis rackets.
    Across the pond, a female tennis player, Billie Jean King answered a gutsy challenge when Wimbledon champ Bobby Riggs claimed he could beat "any woman player" on the tennis court. Riggs hyped the "Battle of the Sexes" match like a WWE wrestler talking trash, courtside. "The best way to handle a woman is to keep her pregnant and barefoot," he often repeated. Gasp! His female opponent, Billie Jean King ignored the chauvinistic cheap shot and played a superior mental and physical game, gutting him like a fish out of water, 6-4, 6-3, 6-3, winning three sets (she never lost a set!) in front of a record-breaking tennis crowd in the Houston Astrodome. THANK YOU, Billie Jean! As a result, more woman enrolled in tennis and other sports. A landmark right was granted: Title lX, which prohibits sex discrimination in educational programs, including athletic programs.
King later founded the WTA, Women's Tennis Association and secured television coverage for the women's professional circuit; prize money was paid to the victress, female victor. The first group of money shakers and makers posed in a photo op, waving one-dollar bills in the air. That classic sports moment decorated the wall of my office (and now my home office).
More sporty spice pearls. We can and WILL do it!
Here's my fantasy interview with Mr. Bobby Riggs:
Me: Good afternoon, Mr. Riggs. We have seen you win on hard courts, the clay surface and on grass, which defines you as an all-court top male player, but the world has never seen you play against a female tennis player. Tomorrow in Houston, we will get that chance, this match dubbed the Battle of the Sexes. Do you believe that you will be challenged by Miss Billie Jean King?
Riggs: The best way to handle a woman is to keep her pregnant and barefoot.
Me: Good heavens, Mr. Riggs! Is this how you intend to play with Miss King? Let me remind you that we are live on national television and we have an FCC license to protect.
Riggs: Like I said... the best way to handle a woman is to keep her pregnant and barefoot-
Me: Mr. Riggs, you can't be serious? Now that sounds like a chauvinistic cheap shot, not a tennis strategy.
Mr. Riggs: Well, it's my right to express an opinion. The best way to handle a woman is to keep her pregnant and barefoot-
Me: Mr. Riggs (me, clearing my throat to shift gears, change the subject) Excuse me. Ok, let's talk about technique, after all, you are the tennis champion. Is this your woodie, racket that I'm holding in my hand?
Mr. Riggs: Yes.
Me: Can you tell me if this is the proper continental grip and swing technique for punching a volley and hitting someone square on the head?
Mr. Riggs: Volley, yes. Head?
Me: Let me quickly demonstrate a modern technique to the viewers. Pow! Pow! Pow!
Mr. Riggs: Ouch! (rubbing his head) Why in the hell did you do that? Are you one of those men who dress up like a woman? That really hurt!
Me: No, Mr. Riggs. You got hit on the head by a woman and just about every woman in the world took part in this demonstration. Shall I repeat it again?
...Ok, so that was a long time ago and Mr. Bobby Riggs is dead. So, I will bury the wooden racket. This was a blip of a daydream, waking fantasy that formed in the mind of a writer, searching for some girl power. In 1973, the year of the infamous Battle of the Sexes tennis match, I was a baby napping, clueless to the epic battle that would propel tennis for women, after Riggs spewed those chauvinistic words. If I had worked in news and sports then-20 years before I worked in television-I would have sought out an interviewed with him. Would I hit him on the head? Maybe not on live television, but tennis rackets are known to slip out of a grip every once in a while.
Hitting Riggs with a tennis racket would never transpire, but the ultimate dream of meeting Billie Jean King rang true. On a glorious flight from Fort Lauderdale to New York, I spotted my match-point, legendary heroine seated two rows in front of me. Billie Jean had no makeup on her face when I spotted her walking down the aisle.
I squinted my eyes. Is that really Billie Jean King?
When she came in clear focus, I looked up at her and said, "Miss King, Billie Jean, you are my all-time hero... heroine. I... I... play tennis.
" She smiled, touched my shoulder and said, "Keep swinging the racket."  
After a trip to the lavatory, she walked back to her seat as the pilot announced his descent into La Guardia. A Jet Blue flight attendant suddenly appeared, "You, my dear, were the only one who recognized our VIP on the flight." Carlos, the name on his badge, pressed a finger on his lips, a gesture to lock our little secret.
I mimicked him, pressing a finger to my lips, "Don't worry, your passengers suffer from severe tunnel vision," I whispered. "The human robots forgot how to spot great wonders in the world." Carlos laughed,  
"You got that right." He scattered back to prepare for landing, while my dream of meeting her was fulfilled. 
~Later, I took a few pictures with her at the luggage carousel as the humanoid passengers shuffled past us, rolling heavy bags toward a long winding taxi line.

TOWER of LONDON

     Black ravens guard the Tower of London at the entrance of the royal palace-fortress, on the Thames River. The birds are permanent residents with clipped wings and a ferocious appetite. Legend says if one of the six birds were to leave, the Kingdom and the Tower should fall. There is a spare like an heir (number seven) hidden in the shadows, in case one should die.
     At the tower, I was drawn into the dark pools churning inside the pupils of one black Raven chained to a wooden post. For a moment standing there, I felt as if I were in a Harry Potter movie. Fortunately, there were  no Dementors flying in the air. I am on the lookout, for soul-sucking consumers. They walk among us in human form and suck the light out of us. Chances are they are lurking you right now on facebook.
     The ravens in black velvet coats are the first attraction at the Tower entrance. My London tour guide, Andrew, greets me near a large sign that reads: Please Do Not Feed the Birds!   
    "No, Andrew, I wasn't planning on feeding those creepy birds." I say, staring at the cryptic creatures.
     "They only eat raw meat and bloody biscuits. I don't suppose you have
Raven feed in your large purse," He says, pointing at my Prada bag, a black hole filled with survival items should the world come to an end: protein bars, trail mix, water bottles, first aid kit, Xanax, a toothbrush, and a Swiss Army knife. Thinking about the blade tool inside the belly of my bag and a security check at the Jewel House made me cringe. Andrew escorts me to a Tudor-style building where the "Crown Jewels" are safely guarded. We stand in a very long line as if waiting for a ride at Disney World.
     Once inside, I fell into a trance inside a sparkling showcase of extraordinary brilliant diamonds, a rainbow of precious gems, and a royal Regalia of silver and gold coronation swords, sceptres, orbs and, crowns worn by the British monarchy. The oldest piece: a gold anointing spoon, which dates back to the 12th century. And the largest, flawless diamond in the world, the First Star of Africa on the Sovereign's Sceptere, weighing 530 carats.
     My eyes locked at the sparkling brilliance of the white stone like the Doctor (Dr. Who) landing his Tardis in a field of gravity. The light force pulled me into a time warp. Andrew snaps me back, pointing out the second Star of Africa, 317 carats in the Imperial State Crown. Both rocks cut from the Cullinan Diamond, the largest diamond found in the world-3,000 carats gifted to King Edward Vll on his birthday, from the Prime Minister of the Union of South Africa. It's brilliant good to be king!
    The primary role of the Tower, Andrew says, is to protect the crown jewels, guarded by the Yeoman Warders, nicknamed the Beefeaters. And after seeing the elaborate inventory, that certainly must be a daunting task. Why is the rat pack in the movie Ocean's Eleven swirling in my head?
     Next, Andrew explains the traditions and cultural significance of the British Monarchy from King Charles l, as we walk through a legacy of royals, painted on the wall.  I purposely loose eye contact with Andrew feeling a tad bit guilty. My history lessons in America consisted mainly of revolting against the Mother country, dumping English tea into the Boston harbor, burning British flags. Andrew forgives me, politely filling in the blanks.
     A small crowd gathers beside a glass box with a label that reads: IN USE. I crane my neck over the shoulder of a Japanese tourist to catch a glimpse of a purple, velvet crown fit for the Queen, weighted in diamonds and gems. Stunning and of great importance, no doubt. "This is the Imperial State Crown; the Queen wears it at the opening of each Parliament." Andrew confirms my regal thought.
     The youthful face of Queen Elizabeth the Second, a powerful woman with royal pearls, resides inside the billfold of my wallet and coin purse. The Queen has graced the country's currency her entire reign of 63 years in England, as well as British Commonwealth states, dependent on the Crown. While England preserves her youthful bloom, she ages gracefully on banknotes in Australia, New Zealand, Saint Helena, Gibraltar and Jersey (not found on the Jersey Shore).
     Andrew is impressed with my International banknote geography. I contemplate whether to tell him that I inherited my father's currency collection from all over the world.          
     Instead, I continue, "On the Canadian twenty-dollar, Queen Elizabeth is 85, sans crown; and she looks like a demure grandmother, wearing simple diamond and pearl stud earrings, and a triple strand pearl necklace."
     "Yes, Her Majesty, the Queen appears laid-back on the Canadian bill, but the Royal Family strictly upholds the custom of wearing Crown Jewels on official duty," Andrew explains. "Members of the British Monarchy are the only royals in Europe who wear Regalia in coronation ceremonies and State functions." Ah, leave the splendor to the Brits, a brilliant species (Andrew is a walking encyclopedia); the crown jewels distinguish them apart from their European counterparts.
     Throughout the bling tour, I notice a collection of rings, shimmering in red rubies, blue sapphires and white diamonds in the "King's Colours"-the flag of Great Britain, the Union Jack. Andrew gives me bread pudding points for the keen observation. In addition to robes, crowns and orbs, each member of the monarchy is given a bejeweled Union Jack to display on their royal, ring finger. A replica would be the only thing I can afford, I mumble as we leave the sparkling jewel house. Maybe I will find one at Harrods or a store on Bond Street. The Beatles, Duran Duran, and other English rock bands once turned me on, wearing the British flag on a t-shirt or bracelet. A fashion statement, everyone wanted to be English in the 80s. And then again, I am part British, a DNA link from the Shilling silver coat of arms. Mary Grace Shilling, my grandmother, died when I was an infant. She proudly gave my father the middle name, Windsor; the branded British namesake later passed down to my brother, Eric Windsor. Quite frankly, that's the only British family tidbit I hold.
     "Let's toast your 25 percent English blood with a cold pint at a pub in the City of London," Andrew says as he takes me to our final stop, the Bloody Tower.

The Bloody Tower
     

     Visiting the Bloody Tower was as claustrophobic as walking in a Christian catacomb in Rome, climbing spiraling steep stairs, and narrow passages. The difference, those who died here were not peacefully laid to rest, in a tomb.
     Shivers run down my spine as we walk through a murderous past, the historic fortress, once a prison, torture chamber and a bloodstained execution site in the Tudor era. Plaques, monuments and old relics, including the ax that chopped off many heads, preserve a ruthless history. Mounted on a wall, The Princes in the Tower, a portrait of Edward V of England and Richard of Shrewsbury, Duke of York immediately catches my attention. Andrew recounts the story of the royal brothers, then 12 and 9; they sought refuge at the Bloody Tower, during a royal fallout. The blonde boys disappeared without a trace, assumed dead, murdered by an unknown assailant. Nearly 200 years later, workmen at the Tower found a wooden box that contained two small human skeletons, believed to be the princes; many believe they were suffocated, and then hidden inside the walls. The mystery still haunts the temporal walls of history, at the musty, Bloody Tower. Ghost sightings have been reported of the young boys dressed in white night shirts, gliding down the rails of the staircase.         More goosebumps.
    Outside, the Beefeaters stand as ceremonial guards, now mostly tour guides responsible for watching over the Tower of London (there are no prisoners left). The men are super-sized English beef, tall and big, dressed in red and navy uniforms with a monogram emblem: E ll 2, marking Queen Elizabeth the Second reign across their breast. The Beefeaters roam the courtyard near the spot where King Henry Vlll ordered the beheading of two of his six wives, Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard (Anne's promiscuous cousin) and many others. Andrew says the headless ghost of Anne Boleyn drifts near Tower Green, the site of the chopping scaffold, and her burial site, the Chapel of Saint Peter ad Vincula, according to eyewitness accounts. A shrine near the execution site lists the names of the victims, forever etched in glass.
     Circling around the glass pillow monument, I read the inscription:
Gentle visitor pause awhile where you stand death cut away the light of many days: here jeweled names were broken from the vivid thread of life: may they rest in peace while we walk the generations around their strife and courage under restless skies.
     Andrew then details a gruesome account of one woman who attempted to escape and was "literally chopped to death" by the executioner as she ran away. I wish Andrew hadn't shared that story. The manner of her death flashes in my head like a gory scene in Friday the 13th.
     At the swell of the tide, on a royal barge the prisoners entered the Tower under the sharp teeth at Traitors Gate, on River Thames, most never left. The entire time I was there, I couldn't help to think of one English princess, who famously broke the chains of the British monarchy. Fast forwarding hundreds of years and revolutions on Big Ben, the royals would not lock her in the Bloody Tower. Yet, she would suffer another fate, yet Princess Diana of Wales became a vivacious voice and legend in a real life fairy tale before "The End". At eight years old, I was charmed by the courtship and wedding of Prince Charles and Lady Diana.
     On a television screen in 1981, I fixed on her porcelain face with flushed cheeks and marveled at the long white trail of her fancy wedding dress, inching slowly down a red carpeted aisle. Like so many girls, I wanted to be her... a princess, a young blushing bride walking on a world stage inside St. Paul's Cathedral. The opulence continued when Princess Diana of Wales gave birth to two male heirs, Prince William and Prince Harry. And, that was a defining moment... I wanted to become a mother, someday.
     At a young age, I believed in a royal fairy tale... I would one day meet, marry a prince, and birth two sons. Princess Diana made a glowing case for motherhood. Hours after giving birth, she looked stunning holding her infant sons as she waved to a crowd of commoners. A picture perfect royal family, in public. Word of advice: Do not fall into a debate with a Brit on who shall be king. Not too long ago, a royal rant was literally jammed down my throat at a champagne brunch at Sarabeths, near Central Park in New York. Sipping a Sunday mimosa, I held court with a man, from Milan. He was amazingly handsome, worked in fashion (no surprise), and well educated. We clinked our glass flutes, "Cin Cin", falling into politics, namely (now former) Italy's prime minister, Matteo Renzi, an election surprise he said. The former mayor of Florence never held a cabinet position; and he is the youngest PM since the Unification of Italy. My new friend from Milan wasn't fond of Renzi, so I attempt to make him feel better. "Well, America had a few famous election surprises and our economy still sucks."
    He smiled, then soured as he reported the state of Italy's economy, which is far worse; he explained. Quickly, I changed the subject, sharing a gallery of pictures on my iPhone, taken from a recent trip to London (his favorite city). I recount the popular landmarks visited: Tower Bridge, Big Ben, Piccadilly Circus, Abbey Road, and a much-needed retail therapy session at Harrods. Inside the high end department store, I snapped a picture of a touching tribute, memorializing Princess Diana and her last love on earth, Dodi Al-Fayed. Francesco zoomed in the picture of the two lovers, mounted together in an albatross, bronze frame, above a pyramid, on the mantle of a marble fountain. Dodi's father, Egyptian tycoon Mohamed Al-Fayed, former owner of Harrods, commissioned the memorial in a swarm of controversy, once calling the showcase, Innocent Victims. He had claimed the fatal car crash in the Alma Tunnel in Paris was staged by British security forces to kill his son and the Princess.          
     Perhaps. But no evidence was found to support his theory, although some still believe it. Those who visit the memorial are encouraged to toss coins for charitable causes. The new owners, Middle Eastern investors at Qatar Holdings, are planning to tear down the "temporary structure", hoping to cool the apparent Royal Family boycott, regaining their patronage with the removal of the Al-Fayad, Diana of Wales memorial. The dramatic story continued in the afterlife like hieroglyphics on an obelisk in Egypt.
     The very mention of Princess Diana sewed a golden thread in our new friendship. "Ah, Princess Diana, what a beautiful woman; I loved everything about her." Francesco from Milan interjected, gently resting his hand on his heart. Our conversation shifted on her life, legacy, and case for Prince William, as next in line for kingship, rather than Prince Charles.
     Quite abruptly, a woman seated at a table very close to ours chimed in with a coarse belly laugh, mocking us in a rambling English monarch dissertation."William is not next in line to be king!"
     Perturbed, I wanted to lambast her with a thrust of my American tongue. Pardon me, who invited you in this pleasant conversation? Silent banter as I thought of my English grandmother; she once said to my father, "Grace never runs out of style."        
     Again, silently... Mind your own business at your table. Seal your lips on the rim of your tea cup. The words balanced on the tip of my tongue.
Instead, I flashed a thin smile, continuing a one-on-one conversation with the most beautiful, chiseled Adonis god-like figure, I have ever laid eyes on. Did I mention he was gay? Darn!
     When the rude English lady departed, I was liberated to speak with Francesco more candidly. We spoke about the cold temperature behind the doors of Buckingham Palace. Princess Diana and Prince Charles' marriage rapidly oxidized like an outdoor metal fixture on the crest of the Royal Family. And we discussed the tabloid sensation when she freely spoke out against her husband's infidelity and the cool rigidness of his mother, the Queen. Francesco understood the suffering of the People's Princess. His Regina, queen mother rode in the same love and marriage carriage. She later left his father and returned to school, earning several business degrees, taking on a high-powered job. He spoke fondly of his mother and said he could never love another woman, but he did fall for Princess Diana.
     Lowering my voice, I shared some broken parts glued back together on my very own love and marriage horse cart.
    "Show me a man or women who is not flawed," Francesco said. "Live your life, enjoy the moment, if a man does not raise you on a pedestal, find another one."
     Francesco from Milan confirmed one of my long-time testaments, women (and straight men) can learn a lot from a gay man. Of course, women can always learn from women, a pearl necklace heirloom that should be handed down, from one generation to another.
     The life of an English princess opened the world's first royal reality show when Princess Diana invited her biographer, Andrew Morton into her living room, sharing intimate, turbulent details from inside the royal bedroom. And the marital sins of her husband outside the couple's royal quarters. We, women related to her suffrage; the headlines drew us near, and her inner turmoil bled in the chapters: Princess Diana battled an eating disorder, severe depression; and several times, she reportedly attempted suicide. The battles she fought engaged a literary conversation as if we were drawn into a book club discussion. And more than a decade later, she is resurrected at a Sunday brunch with Francesco, sans the rude tea lady from Manchester with tea stained teeth.
     Diana, Her True Story rests in my growing personal library. On the cover, a beautiful princess with a thick, short blonde mane gleams a radiant smile. Sometimes, I find myself glimpsing at the cover as a source of strength. If she can smile, so can I, I think to myself.
     Locked in arranged matrimony, the English virgin bride princess never stopped beaming, inside a darkness of sorrow and grief, escaping her own bloody tower. Sex with Prince Charles must have been as stiff as his mount on a polo horse. Yet a ray of light, her young sons brought her warmth, inside the chilly setting at Buckingham Palace. Clutching a burning, Olympic torch through her tireless charity work with AIDS and the removal of land mines, illuminating the world, with her volunteerism spirit, and her great sense of fashion. Later, Dodi, her new love, a tall, dark handsome man unchained her padlock in bed. I doubt she took her last breath with that regret. I certainly would not. And neither would Francesco, my new friend from Milan.
     Not many women have the courage to break the heavy chains that bind them. Francesco's mother, Maria left her cushy life behind and conquered a new one. Princess Diana, frowned by many, took flight spreading her wings like a blackbird on a bench, ascending high above St. James Park. Sadly, her life was cut short after she took flight. A date carved in my skull like a memorial banner: August 31, 1997.
     That evening, I held court on a dinner date with my husband, shortly after the birth of our first child-a baby girl. Seated on a bar stool or rather hanging over it, I was postpartum ginormous, wearing under my shirt a matronly oversized, ugly brassiere, a style my grandmother might have worn. The extra swipe of brown eyeliner, black mascara and red lip smear did not make me feel sexy. And then without warning, a river of hormonal, emotional tears overflowed when the breaking news of a car accident in Paris interrupted the live broadcast of a baseball game.
     The story developed fast and terrible. "Princess Diana of Wales is dead, "Dan Rather reported, in a strong, monotone voice. As death robbed the light of a beautiful princess, my eyes transformed into black zombie orbs like Tammy Faye Bakker.
     Being a princess isn't all that is cracked up to be, Princess Diana once said. And neither is coasting through a life full of land mines and tidal waves. Yet the obstacle course has challenged me to answer the call. Destiny has served its summons: jump out of the suburban pond and leap into the unknown depths of the ocean, without the rescue of a handsome prince, a cursed frog or my commoner husband. The heroine's journey is simply a one seat ride.