Reading Little Women

 

When I was in the fifth grade, my best friend suggested I read Little Women. Cathy was an avid reader. She had her very own bookcases in her room, and the shelves were lined with all her favorites, plus several series: The Bobbsey Twins, Little House on the Prairie, Nancy Drew. To be honest, I was jealous. I loved to read as much as she did, but I had to resort to getting books from the school library, which meant only on class library days (because I didn’t have the courage to face the dreaded librarian by myself).

Cathy would have loaned me Little Women, but I refused it. Being the good pal she was, she tried to convince me that I would like it, but it was the title I found off-putting. Little Women? I had no interest in reading a book about little girls. I imagined them decked out in frilly dresses, using their miniature tea sets to serve pretend tea to their dolls.

Ugh. Don’t even get me started on dolls. Even as a very small child, I disdained them. I never, ever saw the point of carrying around a fake baby, pretending it was some kind of companion. Crying, wetting babies were worse. Seriously, what is the point of that? I remember once complaining to my mother that my brother wouldn’t let me play with him. He had a huge engineering project underway on the side of the house, creating a city and roads in the dirt with several friends and their combined Tonka trucks. In my mind, that was what real play was all about, and I longed to join him, but he had a strict “no girls allowed” policy when he was with his friends, so they shooed me away. Heartbroken, I appealed to my mother, who suggested I “go play Barbies” with my sister and the girl next door. Imagine my horror. Not just dolls, but hard plastic adult dolls who wore—lord help me—high heels and glamorous dresses. Why in the name of all that is sacred to me would I want to remove their clothes and put them back on again, over and over? How is that play? It seemed perverse to me.

I found it all baffling.

Why? Because (and let me attempt to express this without sounding too antiquated in my beliefs or sexist or ignorant) I did not have an interest in expressing my authentic self in the same way those around me identifying as females did.

In short, I didn’t think or act “like a girl” (or dress like one, if I could get away with it). Prior to meeting Cathy, my best friends in the neighborhood had been boys, Mark and Terry. We played cowboys and Indians, tag, and other rowdy “boy” games. I befriended Cathy after Mark moved away, and even then, my favorite pastime was riding my bike, an activity I enjoyed with other boys in the neighborhood.

Listen, I get how hard this is for some folks to understand, especially folks of my generation. Yes, yes, they will allow that some little girls are “tomboys” who want to do what boys do. But folks of my age generally think it’s because the tomboy has some sort of stubborn, egotistic, competitive streak, motivating her to “show the boys” she’s just as good. That wasn’t it at all with me. I coveted all my brothers’ toys—both brothers, including Kevin’s trucks, cap guns, and water rockets, plus Dan’s chemistry set—but I wasn’t allowed to touch any of them. If I asked for those gifts for Christmas or a birthday, my mother would sigh in exasperation and tell me for the hundredth time those things were “for boys” and to pick something else. The message there was that I needed to change myself in order to conform with societal norms.

I didn’t. In junior high, when I learned the word “non-conformist,” I reveled in it. That was me! This past year, when my transgender friends taught me the phrase “gender nonconforming,” I absolutely embraced it.

Thank goodness for language that helps us understand who we are!

But I digress.

Fifty-six years after Cathy offered to loan me her copy of Little Women, I finally understand why she did. Because I’ve just finished reading the book.

Yes, yes, I’ve seen all four film versions (though not the British mini-series), some multiple times. But until recently, I managed to avoid reading the book. A long conversation with my son about the various film depictions of Anne of Green Gables inspired me to read that classic (another of Cathy’s favorites), which put me in mind of Little Women. One night, on a whim, I downloaded it to my Kindle and began reading.

Ohhhhhhhhhh. That’s why she thought I would like it. Because Jo. Jo is me. I am Jo. Or was, as a child, only not as bold. Jo came right out and confidently expressed herself—sometimes directly—as male rather than female. (And just as an aside here, let me reiterate that I have watched all the film versions, and none of them capture to my satisfaction how truly “boy”-ish Jo is. Not even close.) Of course, Jo is also the writer in the family, something Cathy knew that I aspired to be.

The bittersweet epiphany that landed hard on my heart after I had read twenty percent or so of Little Women was that Cathy wanted me to read it because she got me—she saw me and accepted me for who I was, and she knew I would see myself in the character of Jo. What a humbling revelation to realize that about my bestie! And how sad it is that I cannot tell her how meaningful that understanding and acceptance is to me; in the summer after my fifth-grade year, my family moved away, and Cathy and I lost track of each other.

Thirty years ago, when I was hired to teach at Jurupa Valley High School, the first person I connected with was the librarian, Donna Staub. She quickly became my work bestie, and I still consider her to be the moral compass in my life, the sage Earth woman who sees with an all-knowing eye. When she recommends a book for me to read, I don’t question it. I read it.

To my long-ago bestie, Cathy Dodd: I hope you’re still out there somewhere reading good books and recommending them to friends. Just so you know, your best buddy from Grover Cleveland Elementary School would like to say thank you—for being my friend, for never judging or belittling me, and for offering to loan me your books, even if it took me fifty-plus years to take you up on your offer.