Little Women

My Little Women book travels with me everywhere I go. I have it in my dorm room, though I almost never pick it up…sometimes I just stare at it after a long day. It stands on my dorm windowsill. The edition I have is red and hardback, just like the book published in the Greta Gerwig adaptation. I watched Greta Gerwig’s Little Women in the theaters on December 26th, 2019. I saw the matinee show. I drove myself to the movies with the license I received just about a month before, feeling very adult. Going to the movies is one of my favorite experiences, and to go solo with my own money to see a movie I had been waiting to see was priceless. I enjoyed the movie so much, but every once in a while, I thought about the empty seats next to me. My mother and sister didn’t come with me…to see Little Women?! We were all tiny, for pete’s sake. Okay, that was corny. My mom thought the movie was boring. She didn’t have the same awe I had for the film, so I went to go see it alone. My sister was six at the time and would’ve done anything with me if my mom actually let me drive her places. So, I was alone.

I have always loved movies and good stories, to the point where they become rose-tinted glasses I put on until I wear them out. I saw my mom as Marmee, and my sister as a less controversial Amy-esque character—my sister, Valentina, is an artist. The novel was my Covid comfort read. The three of us spend weeks together confined to our beautiful Texas home, with the freedom to eat, cry, and watch endless movies in our pajamas together. We were our own little family of women. Only, they are extremely different from these characters. My mom is loud, my sister feisty—so maybe a bit like Amy. I often became frustrated because they did not fit that expected mold that I now had in my head from this wonderful book I had just read. This is a huge fault of mine: having expectations of others. They’re unrealistic. Whatever sublimity I am looking for I cannot even name. It’s the impulse to control things that drive these expectations. I’m fortunate that I cannot control much, because then I wouldn’t see what is truly real: the faults, frustrations, quirks, and intricacies of my beautiful women. This is real. The Little Women book I still carry everywhere, but it is no longer an avenue of longing for a fantasy I wish I lived in, but a means of escape into great literature, a reminder that my little women are at home, always ready to welcome me with open arms, and an exemplar of virtues that I hope to forever practice alongside my family. 

Author’s reflection: Through this piece, I wanted to capture the novel that has allowed me to identify myself not with it, but with my family, specifically my mother and little sister. It’s a precious novel to me, but it constantly serves as a reminder of my girls. It was a special moment that though I shared alone, was very formative for me.