Margaret Thatcher and Me

In today's press, we will read and hear countless anecdotes of former Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher, who died today after suffering a stroke. For me, there is a personal element to the story- one that changed the course of my life. My mind goes immediately to the woman I watched control a room full of swaggering, blathering, excited gentlemen yelling over each other and posturing for position during the 1980 Parliamentary sessions during the year I served as an intern for MP Julian Critchley of Aldershot. Of democracy and his constituents, Critchley once said to me with piercing conviction, "My dear, when power gets into the hands of the people, it's all over." So much for my naive beliefs that I was surrounded by the upholders of democracy itself. Critchley, a well-known columnist for the newspaper The Guardian, had a particularly identifiable writing style and was later outed for penning an anonymous-- and scathing --  critique of the leader of his own party, Mrs. Thatcher. I felt a pang of respect for Mrs. Thatcher at that moment, as she realized what an imbecile she had in her party and she did the right thing: she ousted him. Good on you, Maggie, I said.

The months I spent working in the British Parliament, walking  proudly through the St. Stephen's entrance, flashing my ID and credentials were months that shaped my life's work.  I was not a fan of Margaret Thatcher (no upstanding liberal Democrat from NY would have been at that moment in time); yet seeing her take on that room of men embedded in my mind's eye  a lasting and indelible impression. It was only years later that I realized those PM talks gave me the deepest respect for her, a realization that hit me as I came into my own in the working world in which I was surrounded by smart and snarky men.

Paraphrasing her, "if you need someone to speak, get a man; if you want to get something done, get a woman." How right you were. And how feminist was your position.

RIP Mrs. Thatcher. May you be with your Denis and may you preside over the many debates up on high.

Grief Strikes at Random

Grief strikes at random.

With precise exactitude, it pierces the heart and penetrates the mind

With memories that flood and dance

Then vanish.

Of love and laughter

Of tears and trouble.

Times better and times worse.

They come and go as they please.

Grief strikes with the touch of a hand,

With a song or a hair.

The brush just there

Displays the last particles of life.

She smiles and nods.

A last look.

And she is gone, again.