Washington has just had another of its Queen episodes. This happens every 10 years or so, when the British monarch drops in on our city. Except for her son and heir, Prince Charles, the other royals don’t cause nearly so much of a stir here. I find these occasional visits fascinating, first, because of their ludicrous effect on the capital and, second, because of the challenge they present anyone trying to figure out why on earth we react as we do.
I start with the proposition that this modest, unprepossessing, reportedly pleasant and conscientious woman is not herself what the fuss is about. She is neither heroic nor malevolent nor even interesting enough on the grand scale for that. No, the fuss is, as always in Washington, about us.
At the simplest level these are exercises in group narcissism. How should we behave? What does she really think of us? Or, in former Mayor Koch’s parlance, “How’re we doing?” It is, of course, true that many large events, not just this one, tend to be construed here solely in terms of their prospective impact on rush-hour traffic and the social hierarchy. I would not be surprised, in fact, if this were our first reaction to news that a nuclear attack was coming (Can I get a seat in the A-list shelter? Will there be parking.?). But in no case is the social-hierarchy aspect of things more central than in a queenly visit.
Again, this has next to nothing to do with the poor Queen herself and she should not be held responsible for the many moral depravities such visits occasion or for the cruelties they always seem to cause some among us to visit upon others. What these visits do in the first instance, by way of invitation lists and published reports of them, is to clarify, even solidify as if in concrete, the prevailing pecking order. Foolish aspirations are crushed as the unforgiving truth dawns: It’s got nothing to do with the slow mails or the missed telephone call-you and Horace aren’t going. Invariably, some newspaper column will cattily point out those who might have been but weren’t invited to a top level event. This at least does them the favor of pointing out that they were within inviting range, though the news account may be of small comfort.
So social order, which may have got a bit muzzy around the edges between large, defining events, is restored and enforced. But in another way, the whole thing is very democratic in outcome. This is because there is a kind of universal anxiety felt about what to wear and what to say and whether it’s “Your Highness” or “Your Majesty” or what that cuts across class lines and renders the otherwise self-assured and snooty perfect nervous wrecks. This is fun to watch and also kind of astonishing, as is the fact-and it never changes from visit to visit-that some of the most demanding and persnickety of Washington’s social lions will put up with incredible jostling and shoving and crowding and discomfort and inconvenience just to be within how-do-you-do range of Her Majesty for a second.
Why should this be? I am convinced that the answer, once again, has to do with us, not the Queen. For all the contact most of the chosen guests have with her, she might as well be a windup toy that can say “How do you do” and “Oh, really?” and move on. But she has become a kind of totem here, who not only is invested with great godly’ powers-to be in her presence is thought somehow to enhance one’s social value-but whose notice and good opinion are desperately sought. This seems true of the poor as well as the rich, those known for an impulse to alienation and rebellion as well as those known for their contentment with the status quo. Wherever the Queen went, journalists found people insistently trying to get her to acknowledge them and like them and take note of some particular thing they were doing.
The only other visitors I have seen Washingtonians behave this way with are totalitarian leaders of the scummiest sort. There we always seem to be saying: “If you see how truly nice we are, you’ll surely change your ways.” But here something different is being said. It is a little craven and a little exhibitionistic and defiant at the same time. It wants to be accepted and it wants to shock. Partly it is an effort to find a responsive human chord in one associated with all that la-de-da kingly English history stuff from school. But partly it is also small “r” republican, a little taunting, irreverent, mocking and Yankee Doodle-proud.
Almost 40 years ago in England, as a rain-drenched student who had camped overnight in Hyde Park with my pals to see this Queen’s coronation parade, I witnessed the crowd burst into great applause and laughter as one of the street sweepers tidying up our mess before the procession suddenly began to mince and give little nods in this direction and that and generally mimic a royal progress up the street. At the Orioles game the Queen attended in Baltimore the other night, fans began to mimic her distinctive stiff little wave as they waved back to her, roaring with laughter at what they were doing. It was the same mixed message, and I liked it, The Queen reportedly asked her escort, President Bush, why the crowd at one point was so violently booing the umpire. When I heard about this I found myself hoping that he hadn’t explained to her about the fair home run called foul, but had said this was just the way we Americans felt about arbitrary power … you know, King George and all that.
Yet finally I suppose it is neither the social climbing nor the authority-spoofing that is defining in Washington’s response. These feelings come into play wherever the British monarch goes. Here I think it is precisely the marionette-like quality of the public performance, the apparent absence of flesh-and-blood instincts that appeals. In her regal way the Queen is a paragon for political Washington. Hers is the triumph of the created, one dimensional public persona over the real-life mess of human beings. And in a city where many people aspire to become walking embodiments of policy and rank, somehow relieved of the burdensome requirements of daily traffic and hand-to-hand combat with the mob, hers is the ultimate success. She sails through the throng of assembled well-wishers and attention-seekers with a confident small smile; and nobody can get her job.
