by Jerramy Fine
Then there was the fabulously chic Princess Mette-Marit of Norway. This girl inspired me to no end. Think you have to be a virgin to spawn a future king? Think you have to have a flawless, angelic past? Not anymore. This stylish princess used to date a drug dealer! And if being associated with such a shady character isn’t bad enough, she (gasp!) had a kid with him (gasp!) out of wedlock! A single-mother princess with a child fathered by a convicted felon? How could it possibly be? Well, when the handsome, free-thinking Crown Prince Haakon set eyes on this elegant Hitchcock blonde at a rock concert, he didn’t think twice about her less-than-perfect past. Totally smitten, the prince welcomed Mette-Marit and her young son into his home, and within months he proposed to her. Isn’t that one of the most romantic royal love stories you’ve ever heard?
And Norway was not the only Scandinavian country to shun royal convention, because next came Princess Mary of Denmark, who looks just like Charlotte from Sex and the City. But despite her classic understated glamour, Mary is hardly a Europe an noblewoman. Nope, she hails from Australia—a country founded by convicts, for godsake! And her résumé boasts more than the usual string of curtsys and dinner parties—after graduating from college, Mary moved swiftly into a dazzling advertising career. Prior to marrying Crown Prince Frederik of Denmark (whom she met in an Australian pub!), Mary worked for high-flying companies like Young & Rubicam and Microsoft. Like I said, teenage princesses right out of finishing school with no worldly experience were rapidly becoming a thing of the past.
It wasn’t long before it became almost trendy for European royals to marry beautiful commoners. And Spanish Princess Letizia of Asturias, the most recent addition to my collection of modern-day princesses, illustrated my theory yet again. Once more, this princess was not just a pretty Audrey Hepburn face—she was one smart cookie. Letizia was an award-winning television reporter, who had worked on the front lines of Iraq and Ground Zero. She met the tall, dark, and handsome Crown Prince Felipe when she was sent to northern Spain to cover the sinking of an oil tanker. Not only did His Royal Highness fall head over heels for her, but the Catholic Church forgave her for being a divorcée! That wouldn’t have happened a few centuries ago, let me tell you!
So there you have it. Bookworms, single mothers, divorcées, even Australians! Traditionalists were probably outraged, but from the looks of it, at some point princesshood had become an equal opportunity industry.
As I continued to pore over my royal magazines, I’d gaze longingly at the sumptuous gowns, elegant day dresses, and tailored Chanel suits that filled page after glorious page. Then I’d compare them to the macramé peace-march outfits worn by my parents, and to the ten-gallon hats, bib-fronted shirts, and Wrangler jeans worn by my peers. Let’s just say that when it came to pursuing my royal dream, it became more and more obvious that I had better take matters into my own hands.
With the help of my royal research, I decided to put together a small list of the new essential qualities required to be a successful modern-day princess. For those that missed it the first time, let me repeat that you don’t have to come from an aristocratic background. (As you can tell, I was extremely happy about this discovery!) Rather, from what I could see, there were only three prerequisites for successful prince-snagging in the new millennium:
1. Immaculate grooming
2. Impeccable style
3. A brilliant career
Simple as that. In fact, the more I read over the tiny list of princess criteria, the more it seemed to be almost ridiculously easy. I mean, it wasn’t like I had to run marathons or master quantum equations or learn to read hieroglyphics or anything grueling like that. With a bit of work, the princess criteria were actually very attainable!
I figured if Masako, Mette-Marit, Mary, and Letizia could do it, by God, so could a girl raised by hippies in the middle of nowhere. (I just probably wouldn’t be mentioning the tipi, the chickens, or the rodeo to my future royal in-laws if I could help it.)
Like I said, pretty much everyone laughed at my desire to marry a prince. One day, my best friend Chloe and I were playing with our Barbies after school. I loved Barbies (talk about immaculate grooming, impeccable style, and a brilliant career—Barbie had it all!), and amazingly, my feminist mother allowed me to play with them. Granted, I had to sneak over to Chloe’s house if I wanted to watch Miss America or Miss Universe, but at least I was allowed Barbies.
Anyway, Chloe and I were sitting in the sea of miniature dresses and flesh-colored plastic that covered my bedroom floor when she asked me, “Jerramy, who is that boy?”
I tugged at Astronaut Barbie’s perfect, creamy blond hair with the flimsy pink brush and looked up.
“What boy?” I asked absently.
“That one,” said Chloe, pointing to my bulletin board.
There among the Disney birthday cards and old royal postcards, and next to my favorite Chinese fortunes that read You’ll be invited to a royal dancing party and meet your first lover and You’ll be chosen to be heir of a kingdom in Europe was the small picture of a young boy wearing a suit—my miracle find. My only real photo of Peter.
“Oh, him? That’s Prince Peter. That’s who I’m going to marry. He’s my age so it’s perfect.” I put Astronaut Barbie down and began choosing an outfit for Malibu Barbie.
Chloe rolled her blue eyes. “Jerramy, you’re not really going to marry a prince.”
“Of course I am,” I said calmly. “I’m going to marry that prince. I was so excited to finally find a picture of him. There’s never any pictures of him in any of my royal magazines.”
Chloe laughed out loud and looked at me with baffled skepticism.
“Jerramy,” she said, “do you mean to tell me that this cutout prince with this piece of Scotch tape on his head is going to be your husband?”
I shrugged. “Yes. Why couldn’t he be?”
Chloe shook her head in amusement and returned to assembling the Barbie cosmetic counter.
“Jerramy, one day when you really do get married, I am going to give you that cutout, Scotch-taped prince as a wedding present—to remind you of how crazy you are!”
Right then and there, I made a promise to myself: I would prove Chloe wrong. When she came to my royal wedding at St. Paul’s Cathedral she would be amazed not only at my beautiful designer wedding dress and the elaborate flower arrangements and the poignant organ music, but at how wrong she was to think, even for a moment, that dreams don’t come true.
There was only one time of year that was more exciting than rodeo season or the Sweet Corn Festival—and that was the County Fair.
To the town locals, the County Fair seemed to bring all the social thrills of an NRA meeting, a quilting bee, and the ever-popular “black-tie bingo” all rolled into one. Not to mention the added bonus of hotly contested competitions on almost every element of livestock and agriculture you can imagine. Where else could you find hay-baling contests alongside prize-winning broccoli? Or pistol matches sponsored by the local beef-jerky company?
My family went every year. And I went with them because I was too young to stay home by myself.
As we wandered through the endless stalls, I tried to avoid stepping in manure as I stared in bewilderment at all the cowboys and cowgirls doing what their families had done for generations. I watched boys from my third grade class expertly leading their pet pigs around the show ring, happily sending them to their death for the highest bidder. I watched girls my age or younger carefully washing and grooming their cows, filing their hooves, and teasing the ends of their tails into perfect bovine puffballs—all to ensure that the beef would sell for a handsome price.
I could never do what they did. I may have hated the manual labor that came with my own farm animals, but I’d become so attached to them and their little barnyard personalities, there was no way I could calmly prepare for their slaughter!
Still, these ranching children seemed so happy doing these things, so happy following in their parents’ footsteps. They even
dressed exactly like their parents with their tight jeans and miniature cowboy boots. The County Fair was their world and they loved it. They fit right into it, never questioned it, and I could tell that they couldn’t imagine ever doing anything else.
“It must be nice,” I thought to myself.
I looked at my dad with his shocking waist-length beard and his long dark hair that stuck out in every direction, tumbling down his back like a lion’s mane. I looked at my brother, Ezra, who was just starting kindergarten. He was wearing tie-dyed shorts and sporting a wacky Mohawk hairdo. I looked at my mom, whose hair was so long she could sit on it, and who had purposely decided to wear her Love Animals, Don’t Eat Them T-shirt because she loved causing controversy.
I tried to dress differently from them, tried to look normal: I curled my bangs like the other girls, rolled up the cuffs of my jeans, and wore bright white Keds.
My mom always offered to sew any item of clothing for me that I wanted (no point in supporting the establishment and buying anything new, she’d tell me), but I stubbornly insisted that everything in my preteen wardrobe was store-bought and factory-made. (I lived for that annual trip to the Denver mall where my grandmother would let me buy new, nonhippie clothes with my birthday money.)
But it was no use. No matter how I dressed, people knew that this long-haired, motley crew was my family and I was constantly reminded of it.
As we toured the County Fair’s sheep-shearing exhibit, kids from my elementary school (as well as their parents) would stare at us and whisper and giggle behind their hands. Why did my family have to be so embarrassing? How was I supposed to fit into this town when they made it so difficult for me?
One year, it was even worse. My mom obtained permission to set up a giant tipi on the fairgrounds. Inside this tipi, she offered face painting and simple art projects for any of the children that had grown bored of wandering through the rabbit displays or the corn bread contests. With my mom’s help, children had the option of making their own magic wand or creating an origami butterfly (which came complete with a mini lesson on metamorphosis). But the tipi was up for less than a day, before the town’s people started to complain: How dare this woman preach evolution to our children? How dare she encourage them to practice black magic?
The whole county fair was buzzing with gossip about “the witch in the tipi,” and as news reached kids from my fifth grade class, I wanted the straw-covered fairground to swallow me up. And my parents thought living with a daughter like me was difficult? Did they have any idea what it was like living with them?
(In retrospect, this uproar shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Plans to build a new library had been halted for years because the gothic gargoyles in the architect’s design were thought to be satanic. Never mind that most gargoyles are found on ancient churches!)
At dinner that night, I picked at my salad and fried tempeh and announced to my parents that I was cutting my long blond hair and getting a classic shoulder-length hairstyle.
“But why?” my mom asked. “Your hair is beautiful! It’s just like Lady Godiva’s!”5
“I don’t want to be part of the ‘crazy long-haired family,’” I whimpered. “Everyone makes fun of us.”
“It doesn’t matter what other people think,” my mom said. “Sounds like they’re the ones with the problem—not you.”
“Our hair makes people stop and think,” my Dad added. “It forces them to realize that there is more to life than appearances.”
To my near-teenage self, this statement made absolutely no sense. In middle school, appearances were everything! Didn’t they understand that?
“Can I least have some pink Keds like Chloe has?” I asked, practically in tears.
“You already have white Keds,” my mom answered, “and you’re already extremely lucky to have those. Do you know how little those factory workers got paid to make those shoes?”
“But they’re going out of style!” I wailed. “I need pink ones.”
“You’re lucky you have feet,” said my dad.
And with that, yet another boring, sugar-free dessert of freshly picked apricots was served. I shook my head in hungry despair. For a family that claimed to like Lady Godiva so much, they could at least let me have one of her chocolates once in a while.
Going grocery shopping with my mom was yet another example of pure hippie-related agony. I would gaze wistfully at the dazzling sugar cereals—the ones with exotic, mystical names like Cookie Crisp and Cinnamon Toast Crunch—knowing that I would never, ever be allowed to consume anything more exciting than homemade granola. I would stare longingly down the snack aisle (as we never even entered it), dreaming of Chips Ahoy and Soft Batch, of Cheetos, Doritos, and Ruffles—knowing full well that my school lunch box would never hold anything to munch on but raisins and celery sticks. I fantasized about gourmet chocolate, caviar, and foie gras, knowing I would have to sustain myself for years to come on nothing but soybeans, bulgur wheat, and dandelion leaves.
And if the constant food torture wasn’t enough, it seemed like my mom actually made a point to embarrass me on these outings. She would pick up a sports drink bottle and proclaim at the top of her lungs, “Look, Jerramy—it says right here that this contains an ingredient known to cause cancer in rats!”
Everyone in the entire aisle would turn to stare at her, so she’d simply repeat herself even louder. A few minutes later she’d pick up a packet of hot dogs and stridently exclaim, “Did you know that these are made out of pigs’ ears, lips, and eyelids?” (She never seemed to notice that her constant effort to educate the shoppers never stopped any of them from tossing the offending items into their carts.)
But whenever I told her that she was embarrassing me, her reply was always the same: “If I made even one person stop and think today, then embarrassing you was worth it.”
And people wondered why I begged to be sent to English boarding school.
Three
“Getting ahead in a difficult profession requires avid faith in yourself. You must be able to sustain yourself against staggering blows.”
—SOPHIA LOREN
I have to admit that I used to write long doting letters to my future royal husband. I didn’t tell many people about these letters at the time because, let’s face it, they already thought I was crazy. But what did I have to lose? Nothing. If anything, I had the whole world to gain.
I was about fourteen when I sent my first letter to Buckingham Palace—when all the other girls my age were writing fan mail to teenybopper stars like Kirk Cameron and Rob Lowe. But aside from a crush I would later develop on Hugh Grant, I had zero interest in Hollywood heartthrobs. And zero interest in the pathetic high school dating scene. Why would I want to go to a Future Farmers of America dance or on a romantic date to the truck stop? Why would I want to pile into some guy’s pickup, drink cheap beer, and make out in the woods? The local drive-in was fun—but unlike Chloe, I usually went for the movie, not for the boys. Eight years, ten years, even fifteen years after I’d found his name in that library book, Peter Phillips continued to be the only guy for me.
But unfortunately, Peter’s address was not in the Yellow Pages. And Google hadn’t even been invented yet, not that it would have been there either. So, despite my bookshelf full of royal resources, I was kind of at a loss—until the summer of eighth grade, when I was chosen to attend a youth leadership conference in Washington, D.C.
Government and political history had always been my best subjects (it’s a huge aspect of royalty if you think about it) and I was ecstatic. That trip to Washington was life-changing for me. For the first time in my life I was surrounded by hundreds of honor students just like me and Princess Masako. For the first time in my life I wasn’t shunned by my peers for not being a cowgirl. And for the first time in my life, no one knew about my hippie upbringing. Strutting through the halls of Congress in my first ever suit was pure bliss. And that’s when I decided that until I made it to England, I would study political scienc
e. Worst-case scenario, I’d marry a senator.
One afternoon during the conference, our group of students was scheduled to visit the Bolivian Embassy and meet the ambassador. After politely listening to the ambassador’s welcome speech, I made a bold move. I decided to skip the cake and punch reception, and breaking the conference rules, I ducked out early and scurried across the road to the British Consulate. Miraculously, it wasn’t crowded inside and I was able to speak to someone right away.
Through the glass partition, I tried to explain my unusual request. I told the woman I was there with the leadership conference—that way I seemed nice and harmless. I told her that back at school I was working on an important honors project about the role of young royals in modern society and Peter’s address would be very useful in my qualitative research. And to my surprise, she didn’t tell me to leave immediately.
To be honest, I think it helped that I didn’t mention Prince William. Most young girls were fanatically in love with Prince William because he was cute and blond and got so much glamorous press coverage. And I’m sure British embassies around the world were barraged with soppy love letters for their country’s future king. Part of me wonders if I had been closer to William’s age (he was nearly five years younger than me), whether I might have been in love with him too, and part of me is very thankful that I am not. I mean, can you imagine the competition for William? Can you imagine all those social-climbing American mothers, hastily putting together their daughter’s applications to St. Andrews University once William announced he was going there? If I were after William, I’d spend most of my time fighting off other girls! Admittedly, William was heir to throne—very much a bonus point for girls determined to be Queen—but, come on, I had to be realistic. Pursuing William was guaranteed to end in heartbreak. I was much happier with my subtler, lesser-known royal ambition. Not to mention that I didn’t feel cosmically drawn to William in the way that I was to Peter.