The Prince, His Mom, and I
Posted on February 2, 2023 by Arno Bohlmeijer
As a young and naive teacher (too young?), I had a Prince of Orange in my English class: Floris, cousin of the current King of The Netherlands.
Floris was a nervous teenager, sitting close to my desk, and we got on very well. I think he struggled with exposure and the pressure on his narrow shoulders. The always-present but never-visible bodyguard didn’t help.
On a snowy day before recess, he leaned over to me and whispered, “Can I leave early, please?”
I reckoned he feared becoming the target in an unfair snowball fight. Being an anxious
person myself, camouflaging that with humor and reckless courage, I happily understood
him only too well and let him
leave some time before the bell so he could find a hideout.
Otherwise he never got any special treatment from me, just regular kindness. With the international contacts at home, his English was above average, he had all A’s, and the whole situation was rewarding.
My turn to get nervous: his Mom, Princess Margriet, would visit the school’s Teacher-Parent-Night. For 10-minute meetings, parents could select up to three teachers. Why did Floris suggest me? Assuming there was no problem, on the contrary, I was honored, but I dreaded protocols, my insecurity, performance fear, stage fright...
The Princess was the then Queen’s sister, and people were not to address her unless spoken to. On the evening in question, I sat at my hosting table in the large hall, among all the other teachers who were receiving parents, to discuss grades or behavior. I didn’t want to look eager or scared or busy; how to wait for her arrival and be neutral, calm, confident?
There she was, accompanied by a lady, utterly composed or cold, approaching not fast or slowly. What security people were watching us aside? What colleagues of mine were throwing glances? I focused on my confinement, normal smile, breathing... No buckling knees…
No sweaty handshake!
Don’t speak.
But she did not address me either. The Queen’s sister, second to the throne, sat at a polite distance, her eyes fixed on me and ‘expecting’ God knows what, not asking a thing about Floris, nor making any comment at all, like a suspect playing safe. Even if I had been allowed to speak freely, what cliché could be said about her son?
Or: Why on earth have you come?
My eyes dropped and lifted bravely.
They dropped to my notes, grade list, pen, hands kept steady, and they lifted again, seeing the same cooled looks and rigid smile. I glanced over to the lady (in waiting?), a discrete meter or two away, who didn’t help either.
Six hundred seconds of quiet hell is a long time, with or without stiff upper lips. Did we clear our throats and shuffle the feet? I can’t remember. What was the correct addressing code again: Your Majesty? Ma’am? Was she the insecure or proud one – afraid that we all thought that something was wrong with her son?
I must have said something like “Surely you’re not here because there’s any sort of problem...”
And vaguely I can still see a little nod or headshake of agreement. Relief? I must have asked, commented, conversed – a few unsolicited words here and there, in a blur of brain-freeze-charm and automatic pilot politeness? I can’t recall if there was chilled or brilliant improvisation.
When the bell rang, my ten minutes of royal pain fame were gone.
A life-time later, I googled Floris and he’s done very well – not envious of the throne?