The royal "we"

In 1999, I returned to my parents' house to help out when my mom nearly died of an aneurysm. The doctors had said she would only live for a matter of days, but she rallied and defied all expectations for a year and a half. I am grateful for this time with her. What an intelligent, well-spoken woman. She was never, ever boring. But the aspect I will always remember most is that it brought out her inner queen. During much of this time, she was confined to the house (or taken on well-organized and orchestrated car trips.) Her gold upholstered wing chair, old but not antique, was her throne. She had access to the television remote and the portable phone. Their small living room was her court, and I suppose you could say I was her courtier. While I did not do everything for her (I had outside paid work during these eighteen months), I arranged the timing of home health nurses, doctors' appointments, respiratory therapists and cleaning lady. I helped Mom keep on top of medications. I did shopping or compiled lists for my dad. I cooked. And I helped her arrange visits by friends. No dressing gowns or bathrobes here. Janet was always immaculately dressed in a pair of trousers, button-down shirt and sweater. She wore lipstick and her engagement ring, but was otherwise unadorned. She had a commanding presence, and friends who visited even right up to the end probably barely grasped how limited her movements were and how hard it was for her to breathe. All they experienced was that they came into her presence, she graciously invited them to sit, and she was as interesting and mentally alert as ever.

However, behind the scenes, Mom was the queen of the royal "we" (or, as it is also called, the "majestic plural"). She did not use this construct the same way as Queen Elizabeth, however. It was, "Why don't we vacuum the living room?" Or, "why don't we make spaghetti for supper tonight?" I would as gently as possible call her on it. "Mom, are you asking me to vacuum? Are you asking me to cook?" I mean, there was no way she was going to get up and push a heavy vacuum around the house, much less carry it upstairs. And I totally expected to do these things. It was just so odd to be "asked" so indirectly and left out of the equation. I think this kind of back-door manipulation was such second nature to her, she didn't even know she was doing it. Perhaps it was a way of denying that she could no longer do these chores, or discomfort in asking others to help. But as time went on, I also realized that it was part of a larger life of disempowerment, of never having really been an agent of her own considerable intellectual and leadership powers. At this last gasp, literally, she was trying to govern, and also finally to be "waited on," but she couldn't quite bring herself to do it openly.

I have noticed that these kinds of strange, almost strangled, efforts at expressing power seem to be common in the earlier generations of women I have known. I'm not quite sure what to say about my generation -- goodness, Angela Merkel and I are just about the same age. Clearly, it has been a mixed bag. Some of us found ways to be genuinely powerful, and some of us haven't...yet. I know I have my squirrelly, indirect moments, and I work every day to clear up the tangle. On a day like today, in a world going mad, why is this relevant?

Because it is a moment that cries out for women to find their authentic and considerable power as quickly as possible, and to align with it and act gently and lovingly -- and visibly -- out of that place. Honoring our moms who absolutely did the best they could in their era, let's use our royal "we" to declare our intentions for global peace and understanding and compassion. ("Why don't we live in peace?" "Why don't we act from our hearts?") And then, if we need help with the vacuuming and cooking, may we simply come out and ask for it. It's OK to do that. Yeah, Mom, it really is.