My parents were proud British subjects. Although they became American citizens and loved their new country from the depth of their hearts, their Jamaican roots and their original British passports never let them forget their home. I was born in New York, yet I inherited their feelings about home and considered myself not only Jamaican but just a bit British.
I was given a very British name, Colin, pronounced “Cah-lin” by Brits and Jamaicans. In my youth in the early days of World War II, an American B-17 bomber pilot named Captain Colin—“Coh-lin”—Kelly heroically and successfully attacked a Japanese warship. His plane was severely damaged by Japanese fighters, but he held on until six of his crew members could bail out. The plane then exploded, killing Captain Kelly. He was one of the first American heroes of World War II. My friends started calling me by this Irish variant. No one cared until I became National Security Advisor, and the press demanded to know how to pronounce my name. I answered, “Coh-lin,” to the dismay of my family.
British West Indians are proud of their heritage and Commonwealth connections. They also kid each other. My Jamaican family used to laugh over the message that tiny Barbados supposedly sent to King George VI at the beginning of World War II: “Carry on, England, Barbados is behind you.”
It was many years before I was returned to my British roots. After the First Gulf War, in which the United Kingdom played an important role, Her Majesty’s government saw fit to award me an honorary knighthood as a Knight Commander of the Order of the Bath. Because I am not a Brit but a citizen of a once rebellious colony, it was only honorary and had to be presented in a modest manner.
On December 15, 1993, Alma and I arrived at Buckingham Palace for the ceremony, which was to be hosted by Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II. We were instructed by the Equerry that we would be announced into Her Majesty’s office, she would make the presentation, and she might or might not choose to invite us to sit and chat. She would be alone in the room; there would not even be a photographer.
At the appointed moment, we entered the queen’s small, elegant office. As she walked across the room toward us, she passed by a small table and picked up a leather box with the award inside, and approached us. “How nice to see you again, General and Mrs. Powell,” she said, then added, “I’m pleased to give you this,” and handed me the box. No pomp, no sword, no ermine robe, no photographer. She then invited us to chat, and we had a lovely fifteen minutes. Alma and I would enjoy her gracious company a number of times in the years ahead.
After leaving the palace, we posed outside for a photo and stepped into the marvelous Rolls-Royce limousine provided for us by the Foreign and Commonwealth Office. The liveried driver looked over his shoulder and said to Alma, “And where would you like to go now, Lady Powell.”
“To Harrods, my good man,” she replied with a royal smile. And she’s never been the same.
We were privileged over the years to meet other members of the royal family. All of them were memorable, but Princess Diana was the most memorable.
We first met her in October 1994, at a luncheon in her honor at the British embassy in Washington. She was every bit as lovely in person as in her photos. We got along splendidly. I suspect the British ambassador had assured her that because of our military penchant for secrecy, she could relax and need not be guarded in her conversation with us. And she wasn’t. Neither of us ever broke that confidence.
About that time a London newspaper wrote an article suggesting that Princess Diana and I shared a genealogy that could be traced back to the Earl of Coote, who lived in the 1500s. Though that seemed a stretch, I pocketed the news immediately.
We met again in 1995 in New York at a charity fund-raising dinner for cerebral palsy research. It was an A-list, black-tie event where both of us were being honored. Barbara Walters was to introduce me and present my award. Henry Kissinger would then do likewise for Her Royal Highness. Needless to say, I was the second banana in this act, and Henry was in seventh heaven—the envy of every man in the room. Standing in the receiving line next to Diana, I got a sense of how hard it must be for her to endure the smothering public life she led. I almost tossed one guy out of the line when he shoved himself between us, draped his arm around her, and shot a self-portrait with a pocket camera.
After dinner came the presentations. I was first, and I wanted to put Henry, a beloved old colleague, off his pace (for fun). Barbara made the presentation, then I took the lectern, thanked the sponsors, praised the charity, and closed by announcing how especially humbled I was to be sharing the honors with Her Royal Highness, “with whom I had a relationship.” The room was silent for a beat. Then came a small, general gasp. Alma shot me a wife look.
I sat down and Henry took the stage, a little off balance. But pro that he is, he recovered and gave Diana a splendid introduction.
Her remarks began, “Dr. Kissinger, ladies and gentlemen and Cousin Colin, good evening.” Match point, Henry!
But the fun did not last. A few minutes into her speech came another incident highlighting the terrible demands of celebrity. A woman in the audience shouted out, “Why aren’t you home with your children?” Everyone was stunned, but Diana didn’t miss a beat, saying, “They are just fine, thank you very much,” to much applause. I only hope that the anonymous doyenne raised her children as well as Diana raised William and Harry.
It was a year later at another black-tie charity event that we really became friends, this time at a dinner-dance for breast cancer research in Washington. Earlier that year, she’d been in Chicago for another black-tie dinner-dance. Before the event, a stalker had sent an incredible profusion of flowers to her hotel suite; when the dancing began, the stalker had managed to get into the queue and dance with her. Scotland Yard security was not happy, and since they did not want a repeat, there would be no strangers in the queue for the Washington dance. I was asked to be the first gentleman to dance with her. I would be followed by Oscar de la Renta, and other New York fashionistas. Well, it was tough duty, but someone had to do it.
At a British embassy luncheon earlier that day, Diana and I sat next to each other; one of the topics we touched on as we chatted was the dance that evening. After lunch she suggested that we practice a little. That seemed sensible, so we danced, without music, in a room next to the embassy dining room. When I asked about music that evening, she told me that any would do, but she offered one caution. Her dress for the event was backless; I would have to decide where to place my hand. I thought I could handle that, and raced out to buy new shoes. The evening was a tremendous success, and guys were staring daggers of envy at me.
In the years that followed we exchanged Christmas cards and an occasional letter until the terrible night in Paris when she was killed.
The celebrity of her position as the People’s Princess created the conditions that led to her death. Paparazzi, tabloids, the expansion of the Internet, the explosion of social networks, and the introduction of cameras into phones and ever smaller cases make everyone in public life much more vulnerable. Intrusions by the media are no longer an occasional irritation; they’re constant. All of this feeds an insatiable, often vicious appetite for the celebrification of our society. The more outrageous, misanthropic, and narcissistic the behavior, the more it sells. We suck it all up. The news and gossip cycles now move so fast that a falsehood goes around the world at the speed of light and is embedded in a million depositories. The correcting truth seldom gets that kind of distribution. And so what? Another story has already grabbed people’s ever-roaming attention.
Attending a reception with three hundred people means exposing yourself to three hundred cameras that can send photos and videos with voice instantly into the cloud, complete with accompanying text and Photoshopping instructions. It gets even crazier. I have been followed into airport bathrooms by camera-carrying jerks looking for a money shot. I now use a closed stall.
Princess Diana was beloved, and she used her fame and position to advance many worthy causes. But her celebrity was a terrible cross to bear.
The challenge in public life is to keep your balance. Most people are decent, and want to reach out to you in kindness. Be pleasant to everyone who is pleasant and civil to you. Ignore the pests, hangers-on, and parasites. Always remember that celebrity is bestowed on you by the public; use the influence it gives you for worthwhile purposes and not just to pump up your ego. In other words, use your position for good, but don’t let it go to your head. Don’t believe all you hear or read about yourself, good or bad. Don’t make your public life your full-time occupation, and hide frequently from the madding crowd.