Diana: a Perspective from a Yorkshire Correspondent by Janet Eldred

It was 9:00 a.m., and like most Sunday mornings at that hour I was in the shower, getting ready to go to church. But this Sunday, I didn’t notice the water coursing over my shoulders. I just stood there, crying quietly, as BBC Radio reported the news of Diana's death. It was the beginning of a surreal week for this particular fan of the Princess of Wales.

When I left for England a year ago, many of my friends jokingly asked me to "Say hello to Chuck and Di", even though the couple had been divorced for some time and as a graduate student in York, it was unlikely that our paths would cross. Still, it was a pleasant thought for me to know that I was in the same country as Diana. Our relationship had begun when "Shy Di" was presented as Prince Charles’s betrothed, and was cemented when, like millions of other Americans, I’d risen early that July day in 1981 to watch the grandest royal wedding of my lifetime. I held my breath as Diana emerged from the crystal coach at St. Paul’s Cathedral, a woman only three years younger than myself and the focus of the world’s attention. Would I have been able to take on such a life as she was about to do?

Over the years, my relationship with Diana flowed like an underground current in my life, surfacing at times both prosaic and unusual. Although I never actively sought details of her life, she held a certain fascination for me, and I never resisted the opportunity to look and listen. I admired photos of her in People magazine, studied her wedding dress on display at Hampton Court Palace in London, and enjoyed made-for-TV movies of her life. As the fairy tale fell apart, I watched Diana’s famous television interview and contemplated whether she was a victim of the House of Windsor or one cool cookie, an expert manipulator of press and public alike. She even became a seminar topic in my Women’s Studies course this year, as we tackled the question of whether Diana-the-icon was antithetical to feminism. Yet whatever she was, I still admired her. She was beautiful and charming, and her charity work brought much-needed attention to important social problems. No, I didn’t want her life -- too busy, too relentlessly public for me -- but I admired her grit and determination, and secretly cherished a wish to meet her one day.

Then came the car crash in Paris, and I found myself in the dual role of mourner and observer of other mourners. As I puzzled over my own grief at the loss of a young, vibrant, charismatic contemporary I had never met, I was in awe of the outpouring of emotion from the British public. Some observers have used the phrase "mass hysteria" to describe the reaction, but I think that’s incorrect. Yes, the response to Diana’s death was on an unprecedented scale here; yes, some people cried openly; and yes, some voices said the royal family’s actions that week signalled a death knell for the monarchy. Overall, however, I was struck by the quiet dignity of the majority, a subdued response stemming as much from shock as from the famous British reserve. Women and men who take no interest in the monarchy admitted to feeling physically ill when they heard the news, and shared their own confused emotions. Across the country, people waited in queues for hours to sign books of condolence. Many felt mysteriously compelled to join in the offering of flowers, the lighting of candles, and even to join the crowds in London. For all kinds of British citizens, it was important to be a part of what developed into a national moment. Of course, there were people who thought the public and media response was over the top; but their voices were largely not heard until after Diana’s funeral, as the country now attempts to sort out what impact, if any, Diana’s life and death have had on Britain’s history and future.

On Saturday, September 6, I once again rose early and spent several hours observing finely tuned pageantry. But, this time Diana was not a bride half-hidden behind the reflections off the glass of a horse-drawn carriage, surrounded by cheering crowds and anticipating her future. This day, through the windows of a hearse, Diana was hidden under the folds of the royal standard, and her public silently tossed flowers in her path and shed tears for a future denied. As I said good-bye, I wondered what of Diana’s life, if anything, I would carry into my own future. +