Apologies, But I'm Writing About Harry
I'm Definitely Not Wild About Him, or His Wife
In 2006, when Stephen Harper had just been elected prime minister of Canada, a photograph of him shaking his son’s hand as he dropped him off at school made headlines. No hug? What a cold man. I have no doubt the interpretation was, in part, because he was head of Canada’s Conservative Party. Had he been left-of-centre, the handshake might have been presented as proof of admirable restraint or delightful dorkiness. But in the coverage, there was also a lack of cultural sensitivity about a WASP or Anglo or uptight – whatever you would like to call it – upbringing. People like their diversity, except for when they don’t.
(For the record, one need not be a WASP or Anglo or of any particular background to have had such an upbringing or to carry oneself that way, just as one needn’t be Protestant to have what has been called a Protestant work ethic. I’ve lived all over the world and can guarantee you that. And a nation need not be in the West to have Western values. See Niall Ferguson’s very good book about that here.)
When I was a kid, I envied friends who had openly affectionate parents, friends who seemed to live surrounded by warmth. But I now see that things are rarely so simple. I hope Prince Harry reaches a similar appreciation. His father, Prince Harry tells anyone who will listen, didn’t hug him when telling him of Diana’s death. He didn’t cry. Yet the scene he describes, of then Prince Charles touching him on the knee and gently breaking the terrible news, speaks to me of so much love and care. Prince William, Harry says, scowls and keeps a distance. There’s an easy retort here – I would scowl and be distant, too, if my brother and sister-in-law were making a living by speaking ill of me. And there is also this: William is not the spare. He’s the heir, with a burden and responsibility, something he understands and accepts, sans whining. (Oh would his brother follow him in that regard!) He cannot run off to California in a self-absorbed haze, commune with celebrities, engage in mindfulness meditation and lecture everyone about unconscious bias. Thank goodness, because he is going to be my king one day, and I don’t want a silly king.
Or course, it’s lovely to hug and cuddle your children, or embrace a friend or family member. There would have been nothing wrong with Charles throwing his arms around Harry or shedding tears. But different cultures and generations handle displays of love and affection differently, particularly in painful moments, or in public. If there were a perfect way, we would all do it.
[Staying Above the Fray. Photo: Chris Jackson]
Duchess Meghan thinks she knows the perfect way. (Is there is a more self-satisfied human on this planet?) If you made the mistake of watching her and Harry’s Netflix show, you will remember her describing how she is “a hugger,” and how, barefoot and in ripped jeans, she, the open, free-spirited California girl, met dreadful, shoe-wearing, closed-off Princess Catherine and William, who were not huggers. Or wearing ripped jeans.
(An aside about ripped jeans - by which I mean the jeans one buys already ripped. A friend of mine calls them “poverty porn.” There was a terrific op-ed years ago entitled Rend it Like Beckham. I believe it was written by Theodore Dalrymple and it was on exactly this topic - millionaires dressing in tatty clothes.)
When affection is put on stage as proof of some superior emotional intelligence or depth of caring, or when a lack of it is equated with a lack of love, one should beware. There’s a popular lawn sign in my Toronto neighbourhood. It says, “Hate has no home here,” and it features all sorts of flags and rainbows and religious symbols. Hard to argue with the sentiment, but I have become convinced that the sign is a near-perfect predictor of hate, just as Meghan’s “I’m a hugger” is a predictor of a lack of sincerity behind the gesture. When people blather on about “choosing kindness” it is a safe bet they rarely do.
Harry says that King Charles has trouble expressing his emotions, but that can also be a blessing, for doing so is tricky and often overrated. (I have learned this the hard way.) How many women have bemoaned the inability of adult males to share what was in their hearts, only to find that when they did, it was horrifying. See “Harry, Prince” for proof of this. There’s something to be said for the Royal Family’s “never complain, never explain” motto.
As my parents aged, they tried to be huggers and express what was in their hearts, responding to the times and the trends. They were terrible at it. It wasn’t them. Once, after a protracted post-Christmas goodbye to several family members, my mother turned to me and said, “Honestly, how many hugs do people need?” This is what the Windsors must be wondering about Harry. How many hugs are required to make him stop throwing 1,000 years of history under the bus? Sadly, I don’t think hugs will do it. The only thing that might help Harry is a good divorce attorney.