To Gertrude

To Gertrude. Queen of Denmark.

You're a liar, Gertrude. And not a good one. See, here's my theory. You're guilty.

Act 3. Scene IV. A murder opens the scene in your dressing room, yet you do not so much as flinch. Are you so familiar with death that his macabre presence is a welcome one? But perhaps your calm control is derived from your expectation of his visit. You set up Polonius. You knew well what Hamlet was capable of, and you sent Polonius to take the brunt of it. Your control is wavering, Gertrude. And yet, you deny it all so defensively! You can see the King's ghost too, why wouldn't you? Everyone can: poor guards, Horatio, your son. In your own words, "The lady doth protest too much, methinks."

But Hamlet knows you're cracking, and he pushes you to break. You're a liar, Gertrude.

In the very next scene, you lament, "what have I seen to-night!" You're so quick to defend the murder as an act of madness, your lamentations must refer to the ghost, the one thing you've seen that you won't admit.

Gertrude, perhaps he wasn't enough as a partner or a lover. Perhaps he's not the father at all. Perhaps he just wasn't there for you. The gravedigger told us by accident. The day Hamlet was born, your King was at war. It was the Jester Yorick who raised your son, carried him on his back and kissed him.

Gertrude, I'm sorry. Hamlet defends a father who was never there for him, Fortinbras does the same, both fear becoming feminine. You're alone, Gertrude, just because you're a woman. Your only empathy shows itself when Ophelia dies, for both of you are victims of patriarchies, victims of masculine control.

You tried, that much I believe. Your hand never held the blade. You carried your family and your guilt together on your shoulders, struggling under it like Atlas under the world. Perhaps it wasn't enough. Perhaps you were doomed from the very beginning. Gertrude, I'm sorry.