Princess Diana

For this assignment, we were asked to describe a historical event and its impact on our personal lives. I would have written about 9/11, but pretty much everyone was going for that, so I decided to talk about Princess Di. Eventually I will write about my reaction to 9/11 because I think it important for the historical community to gather people's responses from across the nation. I think we should all write down our personal responses to historical events to chronicle our time. 

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Being a princess is a typical dream for a seven-year-old girl. Boys strive to be ninjas or cowboys or superheroes. Most young girls train unceasingly in plastic high heels and fluffy dresses to parade as a pretend princess. Once upon a time I was a princess in training, along with my best friend, Kristen*.

Today most PITs (princesses in training) desire to emulate Elsa and Anna from Frozen. The best part about growing up when we did was that we had a real princess to follow through the news: Princess Diana. The fact that she was no longer a princess due to her recent torrential divorce didn’t matter much. She had been married to a prince and she had two royal  children; that was enough for us. She was glamorous and lovely and elegant, everything you want in a princess. And she had married in to the royal family, so it gave us hope that one day we could be a princess, too. 

Kristen’s seventh birthday party was a Princess Di party. We rode around town in a limousine waving at our royal subjects and had a massive royal tea party in the back yard. We stayed up all night playing with makeup in our royal castle made of sheets and pillows. If Princess Di ever needed a helper, we were ready for her call.

Then tragedy struck on August, 31, 1997. Kristen’s mom sat us down on the couch and explained to us as gently as possible, “Princess Di was in a car crash in Paris. Girls, she didn’t make it. Princess Diana is dead.” Kristen and I squeezed each others hands, dumbfounded. My stomach rose into my heart and hot tears pressed into my eyelashes as I struggled to understand. Princesses can’t die, can they? Princesses are supposed to be saved from disaster in the nick of time by a knight in shining armor. They are supposed to live happily ever after forever with their prince, their one true love.

The mystery around the cause of her death just made it worse. Was it the paparazzi’s fault? Were drugs or alcohol involved? Why wasn’t Princess Diana wearing her seat belt? Didn’t all princesses know to wear their seat belt? Daddy always told us they did.

Kristen and I couldn’t even be around each other for a few weeks. All we talked about were princesses and the only one we knew was gone. Our princess parties just weren’t the same after that. Our princess, the one that belonged to us, had left us. A hole gaped in my seven-year-old heart. Not only was my role model gone, but my idea of perfect fantasy evaporated with it. Life is not a fairy tale, as I had hoped. There weren’t always picture perfect endings. Happily ever after could end in divorces and car crashes.

*name changed for identity protection

The Window

This is an assignment for my class with the prompt: the window. If you know who this is about I ask that you protect the family's privacy and not comment about them. But feel free to comment about the work itself. 

for Becky

Someone once said that the eyes are the window to one’s soul. That feels…right, especially now. My body has deteriorated like a run-down house, boarded up and sealed shut. It was once lovely to gaze upon and enchanting to explore, but over the past year, it has closed, little by little, until all I was left with were these windows. ALS does that to you. I’ve been entombed within this frame that refuses to work. But I have these windows.

I communicate using my windows, blinking once for yes, twice for no. It’s all I’m capable of now, towards the end. I use them to say when I’m hungry, thirsty, or need the restroom. But most of the time I just watch from my blue-eyed panes as life passes me by. 

When my daughter visits, I press myself against my windows urgently. I must convey my love to her, give her advice, be her mother through the windows that enclose me. Tears cloud my eyes as my frustration swells. Curse these windows! Let me be free! Release me from this translucent prison! Let me hold her one last time! 

My emotions are all squeezed through two panes. How does a glance portray the depths of my emotions? How do I show all my love, heartache, joy, and fear with so small a canvas? 

When my husband was still here I hid myself. I locked myself away and drew the curtains distancing myself from his abuse. “Why aren’t you normal? Why did you have to get ALS and ruin my life?” He left, along with the rest of my existence, and I couldn’t fight it. I didn’t want to. There is nothing left of me to fight for anyway. 

My parents care for me now, since he abandoned me. I hate that they have to watch me decay and die. No parent should have to experience that. And I have to see them watch me suffer. I can’t comfort them. I can’t affirm them, I can’t…anything. I can only gaze out of my windows because they are all I have.

A house with only two windows is dark. Gloom closes in around you until you can’t breathe, just like this disease. I will die of suffocation. I know that. My lungs will congest with fluid. Emptiness will saturate me as I lose my mind. Death will consume me from behind my windows and no one can break through and release the flood. At least I will finally be free then. Free to soar to Paradise away from my disease-riddled jail cell. 

I wonder, though, as I sit here. Did I do enough when I could move? Could I have done more to serve others? Could I have pushed myself any farther? I know that won’t save me but, oh, how regrets consume me.

The air is stale in here with just me and my thoughts.  All I have are echoes of the past. I peer out of my windows and scream, “I’m here! I want to do more! I want to live and be alive with you!” 

But people don’t listen to windows. 

Blogging and how I intend to use it.

I have a negative connotation associated with blogging and bloggers. I get that it is a great way to raise discussions, express individuality, etc., but usually what I see from blogs and bloggers is a whole lot of talking and not much doing. I do not ever want to be this type of person. There are so many Christian and civil rights bloggers out there that make me sick. They talk about the changes they want to see in the world...but never get around to doing anything but talking. Talking doesn't get you there. It can accomplish many things but it will never be the entire answer to anything. You need both talking and action.

That being said, I am going to start using my blog more actively. I am confident in the amount of action I perform to make the world a better place (although I am always striving for more), but I intend to blog more just for me. As an aspiring writer, I intend to write some of the pieces I am working on as well as book reviews on my blog. I hope I can use it to discuss with fellow writers about different books, ideas, etc. to constantly improve my writing. I am taking classes with Gotham Writers on writing, so when I feel confident about different pieces I have worked on or I wish to free-write, etc. for writing practice, I will post on here. So, here it goes...

If you are interested in what I have to say, I am very interested in what you have to say. Please comment!!!!