Never complain, never explain, never apologize | Elizabeth, the queen of anti-lagna and us –

This is a useless article. What about Elizabeth Windsor, who became queen by mistake because the holder of the office was at the mercy of his own erections and preferred a divorcee to the throne; What about Elizabeth who took on a task not hers and performed it for so long and for so many ages that when her reign began, the English best known to the press was the incumbent Prime Minister, Winston Churchill , and by the time it ran out, the local papers were busy covering Meghan Markle; What about the ninety-six year old who the day before she dies she gets out of bed and goes to give the new prime minister the job?

What about one who has appointed fifteen prime ministers, who has seen every scandal pass and conquered any public, except those who will stubbornly refuse to read the crocodiles because, heck, they are serious people, and that before a head of Was State a cartoon-looking chick dressed in pastel colors?

Those irrecoverably obtuse do not convince them, and the others of Elizabeth the second – a widow for a year, always the perfect character for funny stories about the desperation of the heirs who could not access the throne occupied by an immortal – already know everything.

Dull aside, everyone liked Elisabetta. At twenty because they had seen her, in The Crown, being like they did not know one could be: twenty and with a sense of duty. In their thirties because they are convinced that her blonde won between her and Diana: she granted her a state funeral, if it wasn’t her surrender. At forty because she was the last bastion of realpolitik that doesn’t give a damn about hearts and polls and can afford to understand that no, Meghan Markle is not worth the deviation of protocol of a Diana. In their fifties, the last ones with some sense of history, because it was the last institution, and now everything will go to hell. At sixty because Camilla has never convinced them, and now we really find her the king’s wife? To the seventies for the pastel outfits. At eighty because they were there, when queens were a serious matter, before the systematic disgrace of the monarchy provided to us in recent decades by the collaboration between eager princesses and complacent magazines. In your nineties because you can’t help but cheer for the survival of a girl of your age: if she receives the prime minister, you too can manage not to miss the burraco match.

Is the monarchy a retrograde institution? Of course, yes, but it’s also a huge source of profits: the changing of the guard outside Buckingham Palace attracts more tourists than the Colosseum, the souvenirs with the faces of the characters of the royal family sell as much as those of Disneyland. The Americans, with their desire to emancipate themselves from the kingdom, had to invent Mickey Mouse, to be commercially equally attractive. And, even setting aside the soul of commerce, only fools think that history is made by holding referendums, not by cutting ribbons.

The queen was the waste of a racist and sexist institution and you know what else is there? This is already a more interesting topic. In the show he just brought to London, Chris Rock asks Meghan Markle how she could have been amazed at the racism of people who practically invented colonialism. He does it by making a strange joke, for those who have followed Mrs. Markle’s pains: “But didn’t you have it?”

Those who had followed the lady’s television performance at the time may remember that one of the most sci-fi points of her interview with Oprah Winfrey was the one in which she said she knew nothing about the royal family because she had never gushed Harry (the only one living who didn’t gugla the people he goes to dinner with). And she was then shocked to discover that she – although she was the grandmother, incibacco – Harry had to bow before the queen.

Elizabeth Windsor was the one whose motto was “never complain, never explain, never apologize,” and she had time to see a world where these are the only three activities that humanity considers indispensable. But she too: Elizabeth Windsor has experienced such absolute world changes that the 20-year-old she had as Prime Minister Winston Churchill had time to become a 90-year-old to whom an actress doesn’t understand why she should bow.

As for sexism, in the Windsor house the Salic law does not apply (obviously: otherwise Elizabeth would never have become queen and today we would talk about something else). But, above all, in the dark fifties, when the women of that country that now pretends to explain feminism (the United States of America) without a husband could not even open a bank account, in those years there a little more than Twenty-year-old English lover is confident enough to tell her husband that no, sorry, the children will not be called Mountbatten, because the head of the table is where I sit, because the institution comes before sex, because it doesn’t matter who wears the pants but who wears the sparkles of the crown.

It wasn’t easy; it is not even now: I know women born half a century after Elizabeth who live in the fear of giving a displeasure to her husband who then no longer pulls if you contradict him, and luckily none of them inherits a throne, because who knows what an inglorious end the kingdom.

It wasn’t easy, because it’s not automatic, as strong as you are a career woman, to emancipate yourself from gender dynamics if you are the kind of girl in love who cares not to give her man a bad thing. Thatcher, who wasn’t exactly a violet, finished ruling the country and ran off to cook. It’s not easy when desire clouds reason.

(Also in the Rock show, the master of ceremonies, Jeff Ross, had – now he will have to change it – an amazing monologue about Elizabeth in which her immortality was represented by the queen, doggie-style, who says to her dying husband: Philip, fuck me like it was 1939 and we had just colonized Barbados. I like to think that someone told her, to the old woman, and she secretly laughed).

It wasn’t easy, but it was fundamental, because the female model who does as she likes but without giving up pastel colors, the model that seems to come out of those Che Guevara posters about being tough without losing tenderness, the model that hides feminism under seven layers of femininity, that model there – very rare then and now – is the one that has the most impact on women most in need of emancipation: to influence the already militants we are all good.

I would therefore suggest forming two well-ordered lines for the elaboration of mourning: here are those who know that, for female self-determination, Elizabeth of England did as much as Raffaella Carrà and more than Emma Bonino; beyond those who believe in the power of complaining, of explaining, of apologizing.

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Never complain, never explain, never apologize | Elizabeth, the queen of anti-lagna and us –

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