It is childish; it stands to reason that
an adult shouldn’t crush on actors playing out characters; it stands to
reason that you, …that I should know the difference between real and
make-belief. But there I was, reminiscing scenes of the movie ‘Belle’
and all the while thinking of Gugu Mbatha-Raw, the film’s lead as the
perfect specimen of a woman.
I laughed with her when she played carefree
in the 18th century gardens at Kenwood, and I cried with her when she
clawed at her skin, when being neither black nor white became too much a
burden to bear. I cheered her on when she defied Lady Ashford, refusing
to marry into a family who would carry her as their shame ‘a mulatto’. I
cheered Gugu but this is not Gugu’s life, not her character, not her
trails or triumphs. They belonged to Dido Belle Lindsay.
The tale of the illegitimate, mixed race
daughter of an 18th-century naval captain was what I fell in love with.
In a time when blacks were slaves, lesser creatures than their masters,
even in paintings they were painted subjugate; looking benevolently
upward to their high-and-mighty Caucasian owners.
Dido was painted
vivaciously leading the way ahead of Lady Elizabeth Murray, her
Caucasian cousin. She was loved by the Murray’s her Caucasian family in a
time when such love was a taboo. But the rest of the world hated her,
for she was too high in rank to be a slave and low to be genteel. In an
Austenesque society, she had no place but she remained brave like the
biblical Esther. She grew into a woman of strength in character as
depicted in the Hollywood feature, and a woman of excellent education
and intellect as captured in the critical memoirs of Thomas Hutchinson,
an American loyalist who lived in 18th century London.
It was her I fell in love with not Gugu.
It was the story, not the package that took my breath away. It was her
pain that caused Gugu’s tears to ache me so; it was her joy that gave
Gugu’s eyes its glow. Beauty is fleeting, charm deceptive, because what
is truly beautiful is the person within. I was reminded of that when I
mistook Dido for Gugu. Hutchinson’s memoirs don’t describe her as a
‘striking’ beauty, “She is neither handsome nor genteel – pert enough.”
He wrote. But her portrait echoes a striking pose, and an even more
intriguing tale.
I found beauty in an 18th century
figure, yet more importantly is that I have learned that beauty lies
many a time in the most down-to-earth packages. It takes patience to
unwrap them and for a longtime people may ignore them like they did Dido
but blessed is the man who finds… be it a wife, a friend, a partner or
all of the above wrapped up in one. It is indeed a good thing much
better than full nude lips and caramel skin.
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