We thought we were in for a simple, fun afternoon when we joined Brighton’s Halloween-style “Dress British” parade. My daughter beamed in a tiny Queen Elizabeth gown, complete with embroidered corgis on her sash. My son marched proudly beside her, decked out as a royal guard with a tall bearskin hat and a plastic rifle. Passersby smiled, tourists snapped photos, and someone even handed the kids tea biscuits. It felt like one of those memorable parenting moments—until we reached the town square.
There, an older woman stood alone, wrapped in a heavy coat and tight scarf. Her eyes fixed on my children with a sharpness that caught me off guard. “Excuse me,” she said abruptly, “I hope you’re not teaching them to celebrate the monarchy.” I blinked, unsure how to respond. She launched into a pointed lecture about power, privilege, and colonialism, accusing me of glorifying a history filled with oppression. My cheeks flushed as she questioned whether I understood the darker side of the crown.
I kept my voice steady. “They’re just kids in costumes—they don’t fully grasp that history yet.” She scoffed. “That’s exactly the problem—you’re handing them pageantry without context.” Before I could answer, my daughter twirled happily, loving her dress. The woman’s expression softened for a moment, then hardened again. “Exactly my point,” she muttered before disappearing into the crowd.
The parade went on, but her words stayed with me. That night, back in our hotel room, I found myself digging deeper. I read about Britain’s imperial past—the riches taken, cultures changed, and ongoing inequalities. The more I learned, the more I realized how little I’d considered these complexities while planning what was supposed to be a lighthearted family outing.
Months later at home, my daughter surprised me with a thoughtful question: “Mom, why do some people love the queen if she wasn’t nice to everyone?” That was the moment I’d been quietly hoping for. We sat down and talked—about ceremonies and colonies, traditions and responsibility, heroes who aren’t without flaws. She listened closely and asked more questions, and I felt proud we could explore both the sparkle and the shadows together.
That woman’s blunt approach still felt a bit harsh, but her challenge pushed me to think harder and show my children how to be curious and open-minded. I can’t shield them from every uncomfortable truth, but I can help them face the world with thoughtful questions and empathy. If a stranger’s challenge can lead to richer conversations, maybe that awkward moment in Brighton was a parenting win after all.