Why My Daughter Doesn’t Need “Mr. Darcy”
As a small child, I was extremely captivated by the early concepts of romanticism and fantasy. My Barbie always had to look pristine for her Ken, and playing mother to my plastic “babies” was not entirely uncommon. By age 7, I was composing extravagant love poems in my unicorn themed journal, and rehearsing them in front of my parents. I have to commend them now for being so supportive, as I still have these journals to this day, and how they retained such composure is beyond me. I also thoroughly enjoyed playing “Pretty Pretty Princess,” and on multiple occasions, waited patiently for my knight in shining armor to come and save me. I would pile on my plastic costume jewelry and tiara, and dream about who would whisk me away from a house so consumed by an unhappy marriage and financial strain.
As I grew older, although the concept of a “Happily Ever After” still resonated with me, I set my sights on more realistic views about love and marriage. Don’t get me wrong, I still wanted my prince charming. But eventually, I assumed that he had been hit by a bus or something along the way. It wasn’t until I became pregnant with our very first daughter, Remi, that I truly reflected on the sexism that historically surrounds women, and how some of our greatest literary works are a direct representation of these patriarchal ideals. Where would my daughter fit in to a world that is so trapped between the old and the new? Would she want to be saved, or would she be the one doing the saving?
As many of you know, misogyny is not a new concept. Most of us are well aware that from a realistic stand point, gender roles exist. They existed in our past, and most likely will still continue to haunt our future. As a self-pronounced book worm, I have had the sheer pleasure of watching this gender fluctuation through the eyes of some of the world’s most beloved literary characters. It wasn’t until the other day, as I was happily online baby shopping for Remi that I came across a particular onesie that set my mind in to a complex state of rage. Well, maybe not rage entirely, but it was rather peculiar and maddening. This one onesie in particular read “I love Mr. Darcy.”
Where do I start with this? First and foremost, I will begin with the fact that Austen is an incredible writer, and one of my all-time favorites. I have read Pride and Prejudice on multiple occasions, I have seen the Kiera Knightly movie, and I have watched the television series. But, let’s be real about something here. How is marrying a man out of sheer duty, who is completely bland and miserable, only after realizing that you somewhat like him in the end, romantic whatsoever? In Austen’s day and age, Pride and Prejudice was probably an escape for every day women stuck in very similar scenarios. They had closeted dreams of rich men who would come and sweep them away, saving their families from financial ruin, and dodging the role of a 19th century spinster.
But the real question is, why do we swoon at this kind of utterly archaic romanticism today? In today’s age, women obtain amazing careers, work outside of the home, and have the ability to seek a formal education and substantial freedom. However, if you asked a group of modern day women a metaphorical scenario, such as a wealthy man coming out of the woodwork, scooping her up in to his arms, and the two of them riding off in to the sunset with one another, the majority of them would still squeal in delight. Why should my daughter love Mr. Darcy? He wasn’t interesting, moderately kind, or even particularly romantic himself. Elizabeth, being one of many daughters, and not able to inherit her own fathers land, was bound by gender restrictions in to marrying this somewhat mediocre but financially stable man out of pure oppression and female duty. Elizabeth herself, on the other hand, was edgy, strong, opinionated, and feisty. And do you know what I would buy? A onesie that said, “Don’t marry him Elizabeth! Buy a cat!”
Now don’t get me wrong, I commend Austen as one of the greatest female writers of her time. Austen herself was never married, after all, and yet solidified an amazing career as a well respected female author. She was simply stuck in an extremely oppressed time period for women, and found great success in giving them what they longed to read. After all, who wouldn’t want to be stable, and loved? But my real confusion exists around the mind boggling concept of why we still find it to be idyllic or even relevant today. Sure, women have come leaps and bounds in financial security and independence, but have we really changed so much at heart? I have no doubt that a woman out there will shake her finger and say “I don’t need a man to take care of me, or save me.” But in a capitalist society, are we really just given the illusion of independence, while still sustaining these 19th these century outlooks on romanticism? Why do all Disney movies involve a prince of some kind, and why is television still lacking a large number of strong female protagonists? I don’t want a “McDreamy,” or a “McSteamy,” I want a “Mc- Loves to Cook and Cleany!”
As I embark on my journey of motherhood to my first little girl, I hope that like me, she dreams of big books, and finds inspiration in love and literature. However, I also hope that she can look past the gender roles on these pages and see a stepping stone for the future. Could I be carrying the next Austen? As a mother, I dare to dream. But one day, I dream of little girls who do not weep in plastic tiaras over princes that will never come. Who will look at Mr. Darcy and say “Next!” and who will have every ounce of the vivacity and whit as Hermione Granger in the “Harry Potter” series. Who are independent, free thinking, and unrestricted. I do not think romanticism will ever go away, but I do hope that in the future, a woman saving a man could be just as romantic.
“I am only resolved to act in that manner, which will, in my own opinion, constitute my happiness, without reference to you, or to any person so wholly unconnected to me.” — Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice
