I'll admit that no matter how many times I read and re-read the 19th-century-placed novel Little Women, watch the 1994 film, or listen to the latter's soundtrack...it makes me cry, even if just a little. This story by the great American author, Louisa May Alcott reminds me so much of my family in some way. Maybe in part because my mom, sisters, and I have loved the story so much from when we were little and so it was so integrated in our lives. My sisters and I would read Mom's signed hard cover copy from when she was a girl so many times when we were young. We would choke up over it and laugh hysterically every single time we read it, and we could act out the different characters and their roles and personal moments. It moved me so much, it's as if part of my formation as a person has been influenced and deeply founded by that literary work from a very early age. We even used the characters as verbal insults during moments of frustration: Amy was a juicy title to namecall with if someone was disposed to leisure and 'prancing around like a primadonna', or Jo if one was disregarding manners and 'crudely flaunting tomboyish roughness', and so on. We watched the movie every winter together bundled under the blankets with our eyes glued to the screen, eagerly anticipating the next scene although we'd seen the movie a million times before. Perhaps because it's a true story is one of the reasons why it's so dear to my heart; I can relate to it more than any other inspirational or cherished work of literature. Life in the March family's big ol' Orchard House is imperfect, wholesome, tragic, beautiful, joyful, and at all times entertaining. The re-telling of Alcott's childhood and youth naturally facilitates true bonding with the reader. To be honest, the entire story, on all levels, makes me incredibly wistful. And although, as my family is wearily aware of by now, I have always been certain to declare my abhorrence of the dreariness and reality of marriage and family life, being a 'lover' of independence, travel, and personal pursuits (maybe your imagination can stretch as far as to ascertain whose role was Amy March's in our house), I do envy them. secretly I love the old house, and the garden around it, and the girls, and Marmee, and their house with the chimney, and the snow, and the town they live in, and the christmas dances, and their cozy attic that was their "theatre" where they acted out their home-based "plays". It is so beautiful because it's so domestic, and comforting, and traditional! I truly hope someday I have a close family with many children in an old, two-story, cozy house up north where it snows every winter and colors every fall. I'll share with them my love for poetry, and literature, and music, and dance, and I hope they all have a passion for the arts and theatre and aren't ever afraid of pursuing goodness and beauty. I want them to be happy, beloved, and contented, with self-respect and peace. I'll braid their hair every night and read to them in their upstairs bedroom, and try to cook motherly homemade meals, and hopefully church will be close by so we can walk to daily mass. and I'll be sure to tie a wooden rope swing under a tree. These are just some things I've always secretly loved more than anything else in the world and the simple little girl inside me always dreamed about but never shared.
I may be strong-minded, but no one can say I'm out of my sphere now, for woman's special mission is supposed to be drying tears and bearing burdens.
A startled or surprised look from one of you when I spoke sharply rebuked me more than any words could have done, and the love, respect, and confidence of my children was the sweetest reward I could receive for my efforts to be the woman I would have them copy.
A startled or surprised look from one of you when I spoke sharply rebuked me more than any words could have done, and the love, respect, and confidence of my children was the sweetest reward I could receive for my efforts to be the woman I would have them copy.
