I rolled over this morning at 5:50am, cold and reaching for my blanket. But you know how it is when you wake up an hour or so before you really are supposed to get up. I couldn't fall back asleep. Then I remembered this "Royal Wedding" shindig was on. Well, as much as I side-eyed the big hoopla made about Kate's and William's extravagant nuptials, a little teeny-tiny, itty-bitty, meeny-weeny bit of me was happy for them. Not that their happiness makes any difference in my life. But you know with so much bad, mean, ugly, depressing, sad, and every other dark and ominous thing going on in the world, I'm just glad to see a group of people not crying about their home being torn to shreds or some frantic Middle-Eastern people screaming at the news camera crew. A breath of fresh "short-lived but welcome anyway" air, if you will.
I lay in my bed and watched all the singing, praying, and I couldn't help myself. It did my heart good. Barbara Walters and Diane Sawyer was throwing in their little tidbits of how graceful the Queen was when they met her, or how mannerable William and Harry always were when they spoke with them, and how beautiful Diana was when they talked to her and I thought to myself, "Hmmm, I got a royalty story myself."
And I do.
Wanna hear it?
Here it go.
So, it was the second day of my maternity leave. How do I remember it was my second maternity leave day specifically? The first day of my maternity leave, I drove to my parent's house with Joe. I had already gotten out the Explorer, and was walking around to get Joe out of his car seat. As I silently cursed at all his straps and buckles, I heard a "pop, pop-pop-pop, pop".
Was that gunshots?
My head bounced up and I looked around just like the ditzy blonde in the scary movies who very shortly after get killed. "Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop" They were definitely gun shots. Five doors down two guys decided to pull up to a house and shoot it up. 11:30am. Didn't look pressed for time or anything. And they were standing in the middle of the street outside their car. Not another care in the world.
Just-a-shooting.
I ducked back in the car and hurried to get Joe out.
Somehow the carseat gods were with me and he quickly became untethered so that I could run with him (thrown over my shoulder) to the back of my parent's driveway.
I'll bet there was never another 9 month pregnant lady carrying a 23 month old boy who ran as fast as I did that day.
"OPEN THE GATE, OPEN THE GATE!" I was yelling to my Dad through the kitchen window.
I was scared, even though it wasn't the first, or even the eighth time I'd seen some shooting going on right on that same street.
But you just never get used to folks shooting a few feet away from you, let me tell YOU.
Anyway, that's how I know it was the second day of my maternity leave: I was skeptical about parking on the street in front of Mom's house. (Oh, you didn't think I was gonna let a few gunshots keep me from over there, did you? Even until this day, that is still my home, occasional gang-violence and all).
I was repeating the same actions. Get out the truck. Walk around to Joe's side. Open the door. Except this time I was a tad bit more aware. You gotsta get up pretty early in the morning to sneak an ol' neighborhood shoot out two days in a row on me.
Lol.
"Roxanne!"
It was Mrs. Dawson, she lived across the street from my parent's house.
"Morning Mrs. Dawson." I casually yelled but not looking at her, about to walk with Joe up the driveway.
"The Prince is over there!" She said excitedly.
"Huh?"
"The Prince is over at Crenshaw!"
Well you know what you think when you hear that. The "the" automatically goes out the window and you think, PRINCE ROGER NELSON is over at Crenshaw? Crenshaw High School?
What's he doing over there?
I looked over towards the school and saw a few of the older neighbors walking towards Crenshaw's popular garden that the horticulture class tended to so well. They had even marketed a line of salad dressings that was sold in the grocery stores in Los Angeles.
"Prince?" I said. I couldn't understand why the older women were walking to see Prince. Oh, I was quite confused.
"Prince Charles!" Boy, she was amped.
"Oh. Oh, really?" I said, turning in the direction of the garden.
Like the rest of the little old ladies, I started over towards the chain-link fence and saw a tall white man talking to a few teenagers. Joe was holding my hand.
Now, I don't fancy myself as a person who falls apart whenever someone famous is around. Living in Los Angeles meant you may occasionally see a star shopping on the same rounder as you at Macy's. No biggie.
But that fast I got...all...giddy.
Excited.
That IS The Prince. I'm sorry, I don't care what you say, there is something unnervingly fantastic about meeting royalty in a big sundress and sandals when two minutes before the most exciting thing you were thinking about doing was making a grilled-cheese sandwich and watching television.
And what exactly do you say to a Prince?
I thought about the I Love Lucy episode when Fred told Lucy (who was wondering how to approach the Queen)
"Aww, you just slip her the grip and say Hiya Queen!"
Smiled to myself while I continued over.
I got to the gate and this tall, white man who turned out to be the very same Prince Charles walked up to the fence and stuck his hand through the chained link. He was red, probably because he was overdressed for the unseasonably warm day it was in Los Angeles.
I looked around, expecting some man in a black suit with black glasses and a microphone wire in his ear to jump in between us, telling me to step back. But nobody did.
There was no media there, no news crews, no big Crenshaw gospel choir singing songs to him, no ceremony, no nothing. Just the Prince and a couple other folks.
I picked up Joe and then grabbed Prince Charles' hand.
"God Bless You." He said with an expected but still shocking English accent.
"God. Bless. You." I said back. Silly, I know, but it was a special moment.
He grabbed Joe's hand and said "God Bless You" to him, and Joe looked up at him non-chalantly, much more interested in the chicken walking around the garden. Yes, chicken.
He smiled genuinely at us. And I must say, for a man, he was quite graceful himself.
The whole thing was so..weird.
Weird.
Yesterday I'm ducking bullets, today I'm shaking hands with royalty. All on the same block.
I put Joe back down and we walked across the street to my parent's house.
Wow, I just met Prince Charles on the corner of 8th avenue and 50th Street.
Random, huh?
