Trying To Be A Heroine--My Jane Eyre Attempt

Have you ever met someone who resembles a fictional character? And when you interact with him you walk away thinking, "Such and such an author must have used this guy as her model!" Finding a connection like this is fun. You enjoy an extra level of entertainment from the relationship as you compare and discover new similarities. If the fictional character is well known, then you have an added benefit. Whenever you want to praise, gossip, or complain about this someone, you can introduce him using his fictional, well-known twin and then get to the meat of the conversation quickly. How helpful literature is!

As a teenager, I decided that the character I wanted to be referenced to was Jane Eyre, a Charlotte Bronte heroine. I admired her steady character, sharp mind, and direct opinions. She knew who she was and never wavered from it. In order to be associated with Miss Eyre, I needed to be more like her. So, in total contradiction with that last attribute, I tried to discard myself and be her. How well my brain ticked as a teenager!

Jane Eyre and I were similar in some ways. We were homely and quiet (I mistook my shyness for being quiet and reflective like Jane, oops). And we had our dissimilarities. She had firm judgment, quick intellect and was profound in all she said. Oh, the joys of being a fictional character! I, on the other hand, did not know my own opinions. I was smart, but usually needed an hour or a full night to internalize anything (which is still true…grrr; it is so frustrating). I also was not profound (I was a teenager!). Although I was quiet (shy) in many situations, there were others in which my mouth would not stop. Here I proved to be simpleminded and silly quite consistently.

With these two case studies, Jane Eyre and me, I formed a hypothesis: How much one talked directly correlated with how profound one was.

With my hypothesis in mind, I decided to only speak when I had something deep or meaningful to say. Turns out I was silent a lot.

After a while I lost some determination. I started saying things that hadn't been Okayed by the 'profound-o-meter.' Disappointment was felt each time. Finally, I gave up. It is exhausting to try and be someone you are not. It is much easier to just be my own heroine. Wish I had known that 'profound' bit of truth as a teenager.

"Oh, The Lace!"

'I never in my life saw any thing more elegant that their dresses. I dare say the lace upon Mrs. Hurst's gown--'
Here she was interrupted again. Mr Bennet protested against any description of finery.
(Pride and Prejudice, Ch 3)

Since there is no Mr. Bennet around that can interrupt me in my ramblings of fine lace, I will proceed as Mrs. Bennet could not do.
This weekend I passed a bride whose gown stole my attention. It was elegant, unique and had a vintage touch, which explains why my eyes became magnets. Seeing that she was separated from her party, I approached her to comment on her taste. I had to, any dress influenced from fashion of bygone eras deserves attention and respect, both of which I gave. I knew it was her wedding day and she did not need strangers to commandeer her time, but sometimes you have to throw away protocol (gasps from the graves of Regency folk). I have a slight obsession with historical fashion and she evidently did as well. A shared interest like that needs to be acknowledged. Though our bonding was brief, it was lifting and enjoyed by us both. Moments like these are worthy to trump social etiquette.
While waiting on the grounds of the temple for my cousin and her husband, out came my kindred spirit! I needed a picture of that dress. Into the crowd I went with camera in hand. My point and shoot camera did not catch all the delicate horizontal pleats and tasteful broach…I am sure it was not my photography skills that were lacking.

Soon I realized that I was crashing a wedding. Oops. I pretend that everyone I bumped into thought, "She must be from the other family." My manners got an A+ that day. I am in the yellow skirt.

I originally thought I was getting the photograph to catalogue away for future designs. Looking back I realize this was not my true motivation. I do not copy dresses, I design them. Though I admired her dress, there was no particular element of it that I had to capture. No, what I really wanted to document was that there are people like me in the world. This is revitalizing. I also wanted to remember how happy this girl was in her own unique style and original creation. This is inspiring.
Luckily there were no Mr. Bennets to interrupt me in my fun. Actually, Mr. Bennet would not have stopped me from crashing a wedding. He would let me 'expose myself in some public place or other as long as it is at little expense and inconvenience to him.' (modified from Pride and Prejudice Ch 41). Just so long as he did not have to hear about the lace!

Old Vocabulary

I sometimes do not speak like the average person, or so I have been told. I don’t wholly agree, but then situations like the following occur. 

At work I responded to some comment. I don’t remember what I said, probably, “oh bother,” or, “that does not signify,” or “that makes one ill.” This is common phraseology for me. My coworker, Mr. J started laughing…sort of. It was more of a slight furrow in the brow, shake of the head, half smile on the lips, and pulsed air diffusing from the nostrils. This is a frequent gesture from him. It is usually given because I am being ridiculous in some fashion. At least, ridiculous according to his ruler. Ba.

 This time the head shake was due to my choice of words.

Mr. J: “I love how half your vocabulary is over 100 years old.”

“I love how” in this sense actually means, “you are so odd, yet, entertaining and here’s a reason why.” I don’t know if this was meant as a compliment, but I took it as one. I am proud that a little of Jane Austen’s dialogue style has drifted into my colloquial speech. She is one I give credit to, anyhow…and A.A. Milne.

The Blog

When I was young I wished I was a princess. I waited for the day my parents had to tell me the dreadful news that I was not actually part of their family (gasp), I, in truth, was a princess. They had promised to take care of me until it was time for me to return to my kingdom, which would be on my sixteenth birthday, naturally. That day never came. My dad also never surprised me with the secret that he was a king who wanted to learn what a normal life was like for a while. Worst luck for me.

I slowly grew out of my desire to be a princess and replaced it with a longing to be a heroine, like the ones I idolized in books: Anne Shirley, Elizabeth Bennet, Jane Eyre, etc. I related to these characters and their world (no royal blood, no magic) and I admired them more (they had a bit more depth than my Disney princesses did). As fate would have it, I had just as many problems becoming one of these heroines as I did in learning I was a princess. The sad truth was that both my parents were living, were sane, and we were not destitute. This is not a good backdrop for a heroine. I also lived in the wrong place—a suburb in America, not a quaint town in England. But the irrecoverable misfortune was that I was simply born in the wrong era. I lived in a time of cars and when women wore pants. How can I be a decent heroine if I do not travel by horse and buggy or wear petticoats?

In recent years I progressed to a new phase. In the two decades I spent as a heroine addict (ha ha) I noticed only one real difference between me and them. Putting aside the obvious fact that they are fictional, the only difference is that they had an author—a Jane Austen or L.M. Montgomery to write their story. After reaching that conclusion, I quickly came to a second one: I am a heroine, just unwritten. I lost my longing to be a heroine as I embraced the realization that I already was one, standing in the midst of my own story. I discovered the truth in the words of Sara Crewe from A Little Princess, “I am a princess. All girls are.” Or in my case, “I am a heroine.”

I am a modern-day, quirky, non-fictional heroine and this blog shares some of my stories and thoughts as such.

**The initial inspiration for this blog was spawned from a desire to gather interest for The Jane Game, a trivia board game based on Jane Austen’s six novels. No longer is this blog directly connected with the game, though you will probably notice a heavy Austen influence. 

The Heroine

"No one who had ever seen [Elizabeth Bankhead] in her infancy would have supposed her born to be an heroine" Northanger Abbey Ch 1, Jane Austen.

Strange things happen in this world, though. I am Elizabeth Bankhead and I discovered a few years ago that I am a heroine (‘the blog’ tab explores this discovery).

There is nothing terribly remarkable about me. I live in Salt Lake City, Utah, like 200,000 other people. I work as a scientist, which is not uncommon. I love my family and friends, which is even less uncommon. I am developing a Jane Austen board game, okay, that is a little rare. I like the combination of peanut butter and chocolate and do not like olives, both fairly average opinions. Despite how ordinary each part of me is, the combination is unique and, as it turns out, heroine worthy.

I hope you enjoy some of my stories.