In Defense of Amy March and Jo's Choice
Recently, I came across an essay about two very common complaints about Louisa May Alcott’s novel Little Women:
- Why the hell didn’t Jo end up with Laurie?
- Amy March? Really? Her?
I’ve encountered these sentiments before, but I was a bit shocked by the strong words the author used to describe Amy: A social-climbing bitch who stole everything from Jo.
Obvious girl-on-girl hate aside, I find these oft-repeated sentiments quite troubling–not just for the vitriol so many people seem to have against Amy, but for repeated questioning of Jo’s choices as well. For these to come from adult women, women who usually try to soften the blow by disclaiming that it has always been their childish hope for Jo to end up with Laurie, unwittingly reveal their own prejudices about their ideas of women in society.
An Introduction to Amy, the “Brat”
Little Women was written by Louisa May Alcott in the mid-1800s, loosely based on her own childhood experiences with her own three sisters. Meg, the eldest, is beautiful and gentle; Jo is the tomboy with aspirations to become a writer; Beth is the gentle and fragile sister, who provides the moral compass of the four; and finally, Amy, the pretty and vain youngest sister.
Amy is described very early on as rather bratty and vain. Like most girls her age (12 at the beginning of the novel), she strives to be accepted and popular, both in her family and in school. Notable instances was when she wanted to go along with Meg, Jo and Laurie whenever they go out. Despite what many readers think, Amy doesn’t get her way very often. Despite her love for fine things, Amy is remarkably resilient and tries to make things as pretty as she can with her limited resources.
Amy also makes a conscious effort to better herself, and knows her tendency to selfishness. In the early part of the novel, we see her swapping her Christmas gift for Marmee for a better one. Sometimes, like her sisters, her selfishness reigns supreme. When she uses her money to buy those pickled limes that were so popular among her peers, she gets a beating from her school teacher, and even Marmee scolded her for her conceit, and told Amy that she deserved some measure of punishment. Often when Amy gives in to her pride, selfishness and vanity, she is met with disappointment and a hard lesson learned.
One of the most oft-repeated sin of Amy’s is her burning of Jo’s manuscript. Keep in mind that Amy was twelve years old, who is in that strange in-between of wanting be accepted by the older people in her life but ultimately succumbs to her childishness. No one wants to be defined by who they were AT TWELVE YEARS OLD. That readers should find this so unforgivable, so character-defining, is mind-boggling. She is childish because she is a child. She is a “brat” because she comes from a poor family who used to be rich, and feels like she is being left out on a lot of things in life. It is strange to me, that even after Jo learns that learning how to forgive others is a valuable trait, that readers come away from reading the novel with Amy’s sin festering their hearts.
We don’t take it against Meg for being so vain in Annie Moffat’s party. We don’t take it against Jo for being selfish and thoughtless by not being there for Beth with the Hummels. Mistakes are part of growing up. Yet, why, WHY do we not forgive Amy for this transgression?
Louisa May Alcott’s work is so timeless because she writes about girls and growing up so eloquently. We’ve been endeared to her characters because we can relate to them. The March family were remarkably progressive for their time, notably on their ideas on women’s autonomy, and the revolutionary idea that girls liked to play, to roughhouse, to argue, and to think for themselves. And this was not a put-upon: Alcott herself had political awareness at a very young age, as were her sisters. The novel itself takes place in the midst of the American Civil War, and women like Marmee found themselves single-handedly raising their families in the absence of their husbands. Women, for the sake of their survival, could not afford to allow themselves to be limited in their traditional roles any longer.
Yet despite these rumblings of change, women have not completely escaped their expected roles. Who will these “little women” end up with? Many young readers of Alcott’s found “the marriage question” so pressing that they wrote numerous letters simply to ask that. Alcott herself was not very interested in the love story, but her young readers (much like the readers today, it seems) seemed wholly absorbed in it:
The excitement of the children was intense; they claimed the author as their own property, and felt as if she were interpreting their very lives and thoughts. The second series was anticipated with the eagerness of a bulletin from the war and the stock market. But unlike Miss Alcott herself, the children took especial interest in the love-story, and when poor Laurie was so obstinately refused by Jo, “they wept aloud, and refused to be comforted,” and in some instances were actually made ill by grief and excitement.
Sounds familiar. Just replace “made ill by grief and excitement” by “endlessly bemoaning about it on the internet”.
It is no wonder that girls found “the marriage question” so important. Even today, many popular stories catered to girls and young women involve a happy ending with a happy relationship with a worthy man. It seems that despite the full and happy lives the girls lived in the novel, answering “the marriage question”, is still of utmost importance.
Even more, marriage was, and still is, viewed as a form of reward. It is a fiction many girls are still told today: If you are good enough, you will be given a good man.
For Amy to “win” the reward in the form of Theodore Lawrence, is an injustice still very keenly felt today. Laurie was the perfect guy: handsome, rich, young, active funny and lively. His friendship with Jo had all the makings of the early stages of an unforgettable romance. They went along swimmingly and had the same interests! Her family loves him! He loves Jo just the way she is! Why couldn’t they end up together?
The fact is, Jo and Laurie not ending up together is one of Alcott’s greatest coups. Despite our love of Jo March being independent, outspoken and ambitious, women have become disappointed when Jo stayed true to who she really was, and that wasn’t to be Mrs. Lawrence. When Jo shows us, the readers, that she won’t settle down to be a rich man’s wife, knowing that their temperaments won’t make a happy marriage, we are flabbergasted. Women love Jo, they see themselves in her, to the point that they project themselves on her. They love Laurie, so JO should love Laurie. So when Jo trumps us of our expectations of her as a protagonist, that is when Alcott shows us that Jo truly is her own woman–both to people within and outside the novel. She put it best in one journal entry (bolded parts by me):
Girls write to ask who the little women marry, as if that was the only end and aim of a woman’s life. I won’t marry Jo to Laurie to please any one.
Another fault laid at Amy’s door is her supposed “social climbing,” especially in Europe…
By the way, let’s discuss this Europe trip with Aunt Carrol. One of things I read about Amy was that she “stole” this trip from Jo which is, frankly, a preposterous claim. The thing with Little Women is that we see everything through Jo’s eyes, that any injustice dealt on her is felt very keenly by us. Marmee herself explains why Jo wasn’t chosen:
“I’m afraid it’s partly your own fault, dear. When Aunt spoke to me the other day, she regretted your blunt manners and too independent spirit, and here she writes, as if quoting something you had said—'I planned at first to ask Jo, but as ‘favors burden her’, and she ‘hates French’, I think I won’t venture to invite her. Amy is more docile, will make a good companion for Flo, and receive gratefully any help the trip may give her.”
I don’t see how any of Jo’s entitlement on this matter has anything to do with Amy. It seems obvious that Jo was a little too dismissive of her Aunt in the days leading up to the announcement, while Amy was more attentive. She did not needle her aunt, nor make a case against Jo. Aunt Carrol just decided, period. But as usual, readers tend to forgive Jo’s flaws and pile blame on Amy a little too readily. Which is a shame, because I think their behavior towards each other – Jo not wanting to look too disappointed on Amy’s behalf, and Amy feeling bad for getting something Jo wanted – is a very touching portrait of sisterly love.
But I’ve gotten ahead of myself. Amy, at the second part of the book has become more graceful and tactful. Her faults still lie at still wanting the finer things in life, and seems particularly anxious in returning the kind favors her wealthier friends/frenemies show her. In any case, I like grown-up Amy: She’s more serious and somber, and isn’t too proud to make use of second-hand items to improve her art.
Amy as a social climber isn’t completely unwarranted. Alcott herself is no stranger to the practicalities of marriage. She had seriously considered marriage to men she did not truly love, only to be persuaded by her mother otherwise. Marriage for the sake of convenience, at least in the novel, was gently rebuked, but not totally condemned.
Amy writes in one of her letters:
I may be mercenary, but I hate poverty, and don’t mean to bear it a minute longer than I can help. One of us must marry well. Meg didn’t, Jo won’t, Beth can’t yet, so I shall, and make everything okay all round.
Amy, growing up in an environment where there are very few options for women to make their own money, acknowledges that marrying for money is “mercenary” and that living in poverty is difficult, to say the least. She thinks that by marrying well she can alleviate her family’s difficulties, even if that means sacrificing her happiness or becoming a sort of woman who is to be despised.
For us modern readers, it’s difficult to understand such a mindset. But Amy says it baldly–it’s difficult to be poor, and all throughout the novel we do see the serious drawbacks of their family’s poverty. Even in Jane Austen, even if we admire characters like Lizzie Bennet for choosing not to marry for convenience, there is always that one character in her novels that will remind us of what potentially awaits such a decision–the downtrodden spinster, like Ms. Bates in Emma, or the abandoned and forgotten lady love of Col. Brandon in Sense and Sensibility. Life in the 1800s was not kind to single women.
It’s a shame that people hate this pairing so much that they trample on it as they do. It’s such a wonderful and organic love story. I think Laurie enjoyed the role of the spurned suitor a little too much, and Amy was right to call out on his drama. On the other hand, Laurie grounded Amy very well, especially on the matter of marrying for money.
Amy did not steal Laurie. In fact, she even gave her opinions on what he should do to be able to win Jo’s love. Laurie realized that Amy’s steadier character suited him better. They got to know each other away from the rest of the family. I think Laurie was a very willing participant in this love story. In no shape, way or form did Amy “steal” Laurie, and saying so does discredit to Laurie’s own good sense and autonomy. And by the way, Amy didn’t marry him for his money either. She stated that he’d marry him even if he were poor. Love, like it should, totally got rid Amy of her selfishness and materialism.
But despite all this, people still think the worst of Amy.
The bottom line is, I think the reason Amy is much-maligned and much hated is because of good old-fashioned girl-on-girl hate. Here’s a brief explanation of that concept care of JennaMarbles:
Remember the thing I said about Laurie being the perceived reward for our hero? Amy, in every sense of the word, has been simplified as being the competition for his affections. Amy is so vilified just because she has ambitions of bettering her life (like Jo), is sometimes selfish (like Jo), thinks too highly of herself (like Jo), but in the end overcoming these traits to become a person “worthy” of Laurie. Even if we know that her social climbing has a totally justifiable reason behind it, it goes over our heads. We still hate her.
Simply put, I think we hate her because she likes being a girl. We just like to make excuses, but her girliness is at the heart of it. She likes being the pretty one, she likes being the center of attention, and she likes being in the traditional role of a woman. I don’t really know when the idea of liking traditional girly stuff has become so abhorrent to female readers, but it. Has. Got. To. Stop. I’ve seen this vitriol against women in novels like A Song of Ice and Fire, and I really don’t like it.
I know that we all want to break out of our traditional roles of femininity, but in subscribing to that, does it mean we have to go for women who possess more “masculine” traits? Does it give us license to call Amy a social-climbing bitch who steals the guy? Don’t you think it goes against the whole point of Louisa May Alcott’s novel, which, really is a celebration of women, by putting Jo on a pedestal but crushing Amy down in the process? Is it necessary? Is it fair?
No, it is not. But it is happening anyway. Amy is such a finely-crafted character in such a beloved book that it is a shame that readers decide to make her the villain anyway. In hating her, we simply confirm Alcott’s disgust in women’s obsession of “the marriage question.” We simplify Little Women on who gets the guy. We deny the essential humanity of these characters to choose for themselves, and to stick to it. We deprive ourselves of WHAT THE WHOLE NOVEL IS ALL ABOUT. It’s about sisterhood, family, love, women’s independence, and thinking for yourself. The widespread hatred of Amy just comes from our expectations on women, and their roles in society. So please, the next time you read Little Women, read it with a broader sense of the world, of women, of their time, of yourself, your expectations, and your perceived expectations. It is an incredibly modern book for its time, don’t waste it on bemoaning the love lives of the characters. It is a disservice to yourself, especially if you’re a woman. What Alcott is talking about is not just in the pages; it’s in your head, and she is constantly challenging it.
