Imagine this: being shoved into a 12-foot tall metal gate, stepping on other people’s shoes, other people crushing your smallest toes, the skies open up and suddenly you find your hair is damp, policemen and policewomen shouting at the civilians blocking the bike path, the streets smell like horse droppings so pungent you could almost taste it, the elbows of people around you hit the sides of your abdomen, surprising you, paranoia sets in about pickpocketers, so you clench your purse closer to your chest. It’s an overwhelming scene for anyone standing there, or if you’ve been there long enough, you’re more likely to be sitting on the pavement by the time the ceremony begins. You’re tired of being shoved around, people are bumping past you left and right, trying their best to squeeze past you only to find there isn’t any room for them to go. But, oh they’ll make room. Anything to get closer to those metal gates.
Now imagine this: picture the scene described above. But this time, you’re 7 years old and no taller than 4 feet. You can’t see a thing besides feet, knee caps, and belts. And at the Changing of the Guard ceremony at Buckingham Palace, the lower half of civilians and tourists is not the sight you came to see.
Your grandfather notices your view, or lack thereof, and without a word and without missing a beat, he scoops you up and places you on his shoulders, your legs dangling in front of his chest. Your dad stands on the ground next to you as you’re hoisted 6 feet into the air, giving you the view you came for and the view you deserve. It’s an advantage, being this small and this young. You laugh at the adults who have to stand there on the ground below you, with tired eyes and sore feet from being there for a few hours to ensure they snagged a spot along the palace gates with a decent view. You taunt the shorter adults who have to stand on their tippy toes just to catch a glimpse of what is on the other side of the gates, and even then, seeing anything is dependent on how tall the people around you are.
You are the tallest one in your section in front of the gate—you have hands-down the best view of the ceremony. You see the Old Guard pass the key to the palace to the New Guard: the physical transfer of responsibility and duty between the protectors of Her Majesty.
You are our eyes. You can see what we on the ground can’t. Cherish your perspective from above. Your ankles won’t ache from standing for hours. Your left shoulder won’t be sore tomorrow from carrying a heavy bag. Your arm won’t hurt from keeping your camera phone extended through the gate to ensure a recording of the ceremony unobstructed by people and the bars of the gate that surround the royal building.
You keep your dad close, making sure he is still standing next to you as you wrap your left arm around the back of his neck, pulling him closer to you and your grandfather. It would be easy to lose him, but his ash gray snowflake cap and round glasses makes him easily distinguishable in a crowd where almost everyone is unrecognizable. You’re getting tired, it’s still early in the morning and you could’ve used another hour or two of sleep before venturing out into the crisp air with all these tall strangers. You rest your left cheek on the soft wool of your dad’s hat, the warmth a pleasant contrast with the cold redness of your cheeks.
Appreciate your perspective. From 8 feet in the air, you can see the people on the ground below you, struggling to stay on their feet as they get pushed from left to right, front to back. Some who started right against the gate ended up shuffled to the back of the herd. You almost feel selfish—you can see while most cannot. Your body doesn’t ache while mostly everyone’s around you does. Don’t feel that way. Take it in and allow yourself to see things from a new perspective. Get up high and see the world from a different view.
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