Wednesday, January 16, 2019 // The Statement
7B
Wednesday, January 22, 2020 // The Statement
7B
W
hen I was 10, my mother gave
me my first copy of “Little
Women” in the middle of
summer. It was a bright pink paperback
with a monochrome drawing of a woman’s
skirt and shoes, simple and minimalistic.
As a little kid who was used to the detailed,
flashy covers of “Harry Potter” and “Percy
Jackson” books, I was less than intrigued.
Eventually, I got past the cover. Even
then, I found it difficult to be interested in
the book. The language felt old and foreign,
and the characters lived in a world that
seemed completely different from mine in
the 21st century. Why was I supposed to
care about these sisters living in the 19th
century if I had more contemporary books
at my disposal?
As I continued to turn the pages, the
novel started growing on me. Marmee and
the March sisters were all heartfelt and
familiar, but one character stood out to
me the most: Jo March. I identified with
her. She was the girl I’d always wanted to
be: smart, bold and fiercely independent.
Above all, she loved to read and write, just
like I did.
Her journey to becoming a writer also
fascinated me. In the book, Jo often scrib-
bles away in her room, dressed in a black
pinafore so she can carelessly wipe her
ink-covered hands. As a young girl, she’s
constantly working on stories, exploring
the plethora of worlds she creates. Yet, at
the same time, the writing process isn’t
romanticized. When she goes to New York,
Jo’s main motivation is money — she sells
drama-filled sensation stories for her earn-
ings. Plus, Jo faces all the normal things a
female writer might struggle with. Pub-
lishers don’t take her seriously. Inspiration
only comes to her in bursts. Mixed reviews
frustrate her.
Somehow, none of this dissuaded me. In
my free time, I wrote my own stories in my
colorful, flowery notebooks and hoped that
I would one day be like Jo.
Nine years after my mother gave me
“Little Women,” I found myself stuck in a
biography writing class. I was supposed to
pick a subject for the course’s final paper,
and initially chose Jane Austen. A writer,
I figured, was a subject that I’d easily be
interested in, and Austen was the first name
I thought of. As I was writing my proposal
paper, though, something felt off. Austen
wasn’t right. For whatever reason, she just
didn’t click with me.
I went back to the drawing board. I still
liked the idea of writing about a writer, so
I stuck with it. I researched more writers.
After hours of mindless scrolling through
brief lists and biographies, I landed on a
name that resonated with me: Louisa May
Alcott, author of “Little Women.”
To me, Alcott’s life was immediately
interesting. Thanks to her Transcen-
dentalist father, she grew up among the
likes of Hawthorne, Emerson and Tho-
reau. Even more interestingly, I found that
Alcott hadn’t even wanted to write “Little
Women” in the first place. The novel had
actually been her editor’s idea, and she had
believed the first chapters she’d written
were boring — even “dull,” as she said in a
letter to her editor. Yet, she continued when
she realized her novel might have a larger
purpose.
“Lively, simple books are very much
needed for girls,” Alcott wrote in her jour-
nal, “and perhaps I can supply the need.”
With that, “Little Women” re-entered
my life. Unlike the first time, I picked the
book apart from the perspective of its
author. I poured over every letter of Alcott’s
that I could find to understand her own
role in the story. In the end, I realized that
I was drawn to Alcott in the same way I’d
been drawn to Jo. They practically shared
the same lifeblood. “Little Women,” after
all, is semi-autobiographical. Louisa May
Alcott’s life bleeds into Jo March’s life and
vice versa — and both their lives have began
to bleed into mine.
Nine years after I’d started writing in my
notebooks, I knew how it felt to struggle
with writing. I knew how it felt to not be
taken seriously, or to dislike the words I’d
written. I knew that as a young woman, this
struggle would prove more difficult than it
is for my male peers. Just as Jo had to fight
for fair compensation and the respect of
her work, women today still grapple with
gaining recognition for their art — includ-
ing Greta Gerwig, the director of the new-
est film adaptation of “Little Women,” who
wasn’t even nominated for this year’s Acad-
emy Award for Best Director. But I also
knew how it felt to love writing, to find joy
in crafting lives on paper.
When I turned in my final biography, I
bought myself a new copy of “Little Women”
as a reward. It’s a light purple paperback
and much more modern in appearance than
my first one. As I held it in my hands, I felt
much more connected to the book and the
woman who created it.
At the beginning of a completely new
decade, I sat in one of the cramped seats
of the Annex in the Michigan Theater. On
the screen, a film that I had anticipated
watching since the trailer dropped was
playing: “Little Women.” Unlike the seven
other adaptations of the novel, Gerwig’s
creation offers a different retelling of “Lit-
tle Women” than the others — one that is
nonchronological and one that draws on
modern feminist themes, like women’s eco-
nomic rights, independence and the idea
that domesticity, is, in fact, its own feminist
choice. Hers acts like a love letter to Alcott,
writing and all the pains and joys that come
with it.
Alcott still supplies the need. Her work
resonates with readers to this day, thanks to
the lively simplicity of the adventures of the
March sisters. The years of penny pinching
during the Civil War, dances with boys, les-
sons with Marmee, writing plays and sto-
ries for the family — they all tell raw truths
about women through uncomplicated sto-
rytelling. This is arguably what makes “Lit-
tle Women” so powerful: It doesn’t play into
stereotypes, it doesn’t have to overdo the
characters’ narratives and it doesn’t have
to have some sweeping, dramatic feminist
message. Its mere existence as a multidi-
mensional dive into women’s lives makes it
inherently meaningful and important.
The showing in the Annex was the third
time I’d seen Gerwig’s “Little Women.”
Each time I’ve seen it, it has seemed deeply
personal, probably because I now have this
tight, almost inexplicable bond to the story.
It has become some kind of constant, time-
less entity in my life, reminding me of why
I write and why what I write is important.
In some ways, it has become a part of me.
The timelessness of
“Little Women”
BY CHELSEA PADILLA, STATEMENT COLUMNIST
ILLUSTRATION BY MAGGIE WIEBE