Time March-es on
In the beginning, I didn't identify with Jo. I do now, of course...the whole "spinster writer" thing, the dream of revolutionizing education, the secret attraction to tall men with German accents...but when I first read Little Women, I thought Jo was too impulsive. I was a little afraid of the way she'd jump about, of the way her mind leapfrogged and her tongue was unchecked.

I was a Meg girl (yes, my favorite Beatle was Paul. Why do you ask?). I was the big sister; I admired Meg's calm control and the (somewhat unearned, perhaps?) respect she commanded from her sisters. I liked that she'd at least try getting all tarted up before she decided that immodesty wasn't really her bag. Okay, fine--in my copy, at least, Meg had heavy, wavy, blonde hair. I friggin' looked like Meg. I had the same issues with Mary Ingalls (side note--anybody think the historically substantiated paralells between the March sisters and the Ingalls sisters are a little weird? Discuss in the comments). Meg also had the life I understood. She married a good (if boring) man, had pretty (if unbelievable) children, and kept a cute little house. I was about ten before I realized there were other lives to be lived. It took a few more years before I shifted my allegiance to Jo.

From my grown-up perch, I know Meg is a goody-goody and something of a ninny. In real life, she was probably a lot like Ma Ingalls...wise as a serpent; gentle as a dove; as racist, sexist, and exclusionist as a Southern Baptist minister in 1915. I wouldn't like her one bit if we met now, and she'd have no use for me. Secretly, beneath the razor-sharp exterior, I admire anyone who can live calmly and sedately (at least on the surface). The veneer of serenity; that's what I admire in Meg.

I understand why she's seething beneath the kind exterior. We all pity Beth, and anyway she's dead; Amy has her closeted admirers, who are taken by her beauty and optimism for better things ahead; and everyone, every girl at least, wants to grow up to be Jo. No one ever wants to be Meg March. No one, that is, but me.