The Meaning of Diana
Fully understanding my grief two decades after her death
GRIEF looks different through everyone’s eyes, especially a child’s. I was 11 years old when Princess Diana died with her lover Dodi Al Fayed and driver Henri Paul exactly 20 years ago Thursday. My reaction was perhaps a bit excessive for a child unrelated to Di: I sobbed for days, nearly unable to eat.
Her death broke my heart. And I’ve been trying to fully grasp why ever since, apart from the feeling that people simply shouldn’t die young.
Some explanations seem clear in retrospect. Every year, I’d pull out the old trunk filled with Diana memorabilia I’d collected from our childhood visits back to England. Part of my affection for Diana was undoubtedly tied up with the memories of my grandparents and the country I love so much.
Among the items in that collection: a picture book of Princess Di- ana that my aunt and uncle had given me with a lovely inscription; a commemorative coin of Diana and Prince Charles’ 1981 wedding; the newspapers my grandparents (knowing how much I loved them) had saved for me; postcards; a series of tiny books on the history of the royal family.
My favorite was the purple one, dedicated to Diana, of course, with her short 1980s hair and smirk that reminded me oddly of my mother when she was younger.
But that can’t be the only reason I cared so much. And so it’s taken the passage of time to piece together how I felt, but was too young to really understand, 20 years ago.
As a young girl, I doubt I would’ve thought to call Princess Diana a hero, and I find myself still somewhat reticent to use that term; I just loved her. But as an adult reflecting on the pull she still has, even in death, I can see a little better.
Former Prime Minister Tony Blair summed up what most people with hearts thought of her, when he said:
“How many times shall we remember her in how many different ways — with the sick, the dying, with children, with the needy? With just a look or a gesture that spoke so much more than words, she would reveal to all of us the depth of her compassion and her humanity.
“We know how difficult things were for her from time to time. I am sure we can only guess that. But people everywhere, not just here in Britain, kept faith with Princess Diana.”
And all of those things are true of her.
But I think what I mourn the most is the loss of a woman who was stunning and fiercely loving and compassionate, but also who didn’t pretend she wasn’t broken or hurt or angry. She used her vulnerability and frailty to meet others in theirs and turned those feelings into strength and empowerment.
You only need to look at her shaking the hand of a patient with leprosy or sitting on the bed of a man struck with AIDS to see that.
You could see her fiercely loving nature in just about any picture of her with her sons, Princes William and Harry.
You could see the compassion in those iconic photos of her walking through active minefields in Angola and holding the children who had been injured by them.
I like that sometimes her anger looked like a short, black hear-me-roar dress, which she wore to a 1994 Vanity Fair party not too long after Prince Charles’ adultery confession. Or the TV interview in which she said: “There were three of us in this marriage, so it was a bit crowded.”
I like that people think she bucked a centuries-old system just by being who she was. She singlehandedly showed the world what it could look like when the crown came alive — and, oh, how it shined. She made her duties conform to her values and her passion, rather than the other way around, like most royals.
She was complex and layered, like the rest of us, and she owned it. That was the mythos surrounding her: She was a princess, but she was real. So real, in fact, that an 11year-old got it.
She was the fairy tale made flesh. And perhaps most important, she proved that children could tell the difference. In that way, Princess Diana taught me so much about myself.
These are the sorts of things you can’t articulate as a kid; after all, you don’t quite understand the magnitude. Twenty years on, however, and inching closer to that young age of 36, I get it: Live well, be yourself, be kind. Even children will remember that.