Critical Essays On Anne Of Green Gables

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.Anne is feisty, impetuous, with a wild mane of fiery red hair. As a girl, I would slam doors and throw things hard and spit out curse words and bang bony fists against walls.

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I read sentences about swan-like necks and slim waists and cheeks flushed pink with fury and something burned inside of me, something I didn’t understand, something I wanted more of.

Beauty seemed to be the key, the key to being seen, to being noticed, to be taken seriously. eyes blazing, hands clenched, passionate indignation exhaling from her like an atmosphere.” When her academic rival, and eventual husband, Gilbert Blythe offers Anne a candy heart with the words “You are sweet” written on it, Anne “[takes] the pink heart gingerly between the tips of her fingers, drop[s] it on the floor, [and grinds] it to powder beneath her heel.” At eleven, I was enchanted with Anne’s intellect, her imagination, her appreciation of beauty, but most of all, I loved her rage.

Angry that when I expressed something I thought was important and profound, adults smiled at me like I was a soft kitten.

Angry that I was skinny and awkward, angry that I didn’t need my training bra.

Leslie made me feel like I could embrace the noise of my anger, dance with it, without worrying about what the rest of the world might think.

Leslie ultimately marries a dashing writer, and when the avuncular, lovable lighthouse keeper sees the newly wed Leslie sitting with Anne, he places his hand on both their heads and praises them: “Two good, sweet women. But at thirty-six, the aftertaste leaves me hollow.

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.

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.


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