Critical Essays On Anne Of Green Gables

Critical Essays On Anne Of Green Gables-56
She fluffed her yellow curls around her face and raised her eyebrows at her reflection, she arranged oranges in a turquoise bowl, she smoothed crisp white sheets before tucking me in when I was hot with fever, she cut lumps of butter into pots of cream of mushroom soup.

She fluffed her yellow curls around her face and raised her eyebrows at her reflection, she arranged oranges in a turquoise bowl, she smoothed crisp white sheets before tucking me in when I was hot with fever, she cut lumps of butter into pots of cream of mushroom soup.

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I was angry that my stomach pushed soft against my T-shirt like a baby’s, angry that I was invisible to boys, angry about friends getting their periods before me.

I was angry at my mother for not being more content, more like “normal moms” who were happy to cheer on the sidelines at soccer games.

I knew where a secret patch of wild strawberries grew in the lower right field.

I had the best cursive handwriting in my class, and this was confirmed by a very official certificate. My four-year-old cousin covertly threw a pea at my other four-year-old cousin, and I tightened the grip on my fork. The kids’ table was a symbol of everything uncomfortable about childhood—it was a clear indication that you didn’t matter, that you were not to be taken seriously.

I thought of my mother and her struggle to find peace in those same waters, and later, when I read bits of But at eleven, I rarely questioned my mother’s rage, never wondered if she may have wanted something outside the domestic domain.

I looked to Anne instead, and she taught me that it was ok to be angry as a girl, but once older, anger could be wrapped up with a tidy, beautiful bow, because motherhood and domesticity should make a good woman happy. I’m troubled that she is better suited for beauty and happiness once she adheres to certain societal expectations.

One of Anne’s biggest triggers is being called ugly, but even then, I knew her “ugly” was not real ugly.

She is ugly-duckling ugly: the girl in a rom-com rendered “nerdy” by glasses, the girl who emerges shockingly beautiful once she lets down her hair and takes off those glasses.

One summer, when I was eleven, beneath the dark, low-beamed ceilings of an antique shop in Cape Cod, I rifled through stacks of deep emerald, dusty garnet, rich umber, and inky navy with my mother. Before that afternoon, I had not been a collector of anything.

But within the dusty copy of Lucy Maud Montgomery’s I found words about feminine beauty and rage that resonated with me.

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