31 October 2001
Growing older brings great uncertainty into one's life, and such is the case for the narrator in Alice Munro's "Boys and Girls." By chronicling the later days of her childhood, the narrator paints a portrait of herself which is atypical for a girl in her time. She enjoys working for her father on the family fox farm, doing tasks generally regarded as the work of men and boys, deriving great pleasure from her father's approval of the fine job she does. Halfway through the narrative, a subtle change occurs in her and in how the world regards her. She begins to notice that her family, and her mother in particular, seem to consider her role as misplaced. Her younger brother, Laird, begins to find the physical strength to resist her. Worst of all, she begins to realize that her own attitude is changing in a way she had not prepared for and cannot find a way to reverse. At last, she must confront this change in herself and accept with bittersweet recognition that she is a girl and must seek the independence of one growing up.
At the opening of the story, the narrator describes her world as she saw it during her childhood. Without revealing her sex to the reader, she recounts the events of her life much as would a boy of her age.
[My mother] thought that was not funny. In fact she disliked the whole pelting operation-that was what the killing, skinning, and preparation of the furs was called-and wished it did not have to take place in the house. There was a the smell. After the pelt had been stretched inside-out on a long board my father scraped away delicately, removing the little clotted webs of blood vessels, the bubbles of fat; the smell of blood and animal fat, with the strong primitive odour of the fox itself penetrated all parts of the house. I found it reassuringly seasonal, like the smell of oranges and pine needles. (422)As would be totally unexpected of a girl at her age, she has become not merely comfortable living with the gruesomeness of living on a fox farm, but even more so comforted by their presence. Her only alternative - to reject the world around her - would surely break her, and thus is not true alternative after all. However, she does not become so simply out of the mold of her environment. Something in her nature is revealed in the stories she tells to herself to pass the time before sleep.
Now for the time that remained to me, the most perfectly private and perhaps the best time of the whole day, I arranged myself tightly under the covers and went on with one of the stories I was telling myself from night to night. These stories were about myself, when I had grown a little older; they took place in a world that was recognizably mine, yet one that presented opportunities for courage, boldness and self-sacrifice, as mine never did. I rescued people from a bombed building (it discouraged me that the real war had gone on so far away from Jubilee). I shot two rabid wolves who were menacing the schoolyard (the teachers cowered terrified at my back). I rode a fine horse spiritedly down the main street of Jubilee, acknowledging the townspeople's gratitude for some yet-to-be-worked-out piece of heroism (nobody ever rode a horse there, except King Billy in the Orangeman'- Day parade). (Munro 423)The need to do great things and be appreciated for them, take on great responsibility, and lead a bold life, which is greatly encouraged for boys and discouraged for girls, bears great value for the narrator in this story. So for her father she works hard and diligently, hoping to achieve some semblance of these aspirations through her labors. "Whatever thoughts and stories my father told were private, and I was shy of him and would never ask him questions. Nevertheless I worked willingly under his eyes, and with a feeling of pride." (Munro 425) She does not become close to her father, but still treasures most thoroughly his approval. The necessities brought on by the life she lives on a fox farm mixed with her own deeply rooted aspirations for true responsibility place the narrator into a role expected to be filled by a boy.
As those necessities which had led her to her role begin to dissipate, the narrator struggles to maintain her identity. Her mother begins to long for the day when Laird will be old enough to assume some of the narrator's duties.
"And then I can use her more in the house," I heard me mother say. She had a dead-quiet, regretful way of talking about me that always made me uneasy. "I just get my back turned and she runs off. It's not like I had a girl in the family at all." (Munro 426)The narrator attributes no value to household activities and thus takes great care to avoid them. "It seemed to me that work in the house was endless, dreary and peculiarly depressing; work done out of doors, and in my father's service, was ritualistically important." (425) But her family begins to find her less suitable to fulfill that service and she becomes fearful that as Laird grows capable of handling hard work, he will become a rival.
This winter I also began to hear a great deal more on the theme my mother had sounded when she had been talking in front of the barn. I no longer felt safe. It seemed that in the minds of the people around me there was a steady undercurrent of thought, not to be deflected, on this one subject. The word girl had formerly seemed to me innocent and unburdened, like the world child; now it appeared that it was no such thing. A girl was not, as I had supposed, simply what I was; it was what I had to become. It was a definition, always touched with emphasis, with reproach and disappointment. Also it was a joke on me. Once Laird and I were fighting, and for the first time ever I had to use all my strength against him; even so, he caught and pinned my arm for a moment, really hurting me. (Munro 427)The whole world feels as though it has come together to conspire against her that it may make her over into what it believes a girl should be. But at the same time, the title is given a meaning filled with "reproach and disappointment," as though they wish to turn her into a thing of no worth or value - a thing which is none of what she values most of all in her heart. And so she rejects the efforts of the world, refusing to assume any action attributed to being a girl. "I continued to slam the doors and sit as awkwardly as possible, thinking that by such measures I kept myself free." (Munro 427) Rather than allow herself to become the mere girl which the world seems to wish her to be, the narrator fights in every way possible to maintain the identity of her childhood, regardless of how true a reflection that identity is on her actual personality.
Surprising and frightening the narrator more than anything else, she gradually comes to recognize that however hard she fights to stay the same, she must deal with the emotional changes which accompany growing up.
I still stayed awake after Laird was asleep and told myself stories, but even in these stories something different was happening, mysterious alterations took place. A story might start off in the old way, with a spectacularly danger, a fire or wild animals, and for a while I might rescue people; then things would change around, and instead, somebody would be rescuing me. It might be a boy from our class at school, or even Mr. Campbell, our teacher, who tickled girls under the arms. And at this point the story concerned itself at great length with what I looked like-how long my hair was, and what kind of dress I had on; by the time I had these details worked out the real excitement of the story was lost. (Munro 431)The narrator thus suggests that she unknowingly enters the early stages of puberty at this point, completely confused that her thoughts have turned to boys and dressing up nicely. Reinforcing this mental change in attitude, her actions are affected as well. Without understanding why, the narrator begins to reject her father's authority. When a certain horse which is to be shot for reasons she thinks she understands escapes, the opportunity to set the horse free for a time presents itself to her.
Instead of shutting the gate, I opened it as wide as I could. I did not make any decision to do this, it was just what I did. Flora never slowed down; she galloped straight past me, and Laird jumped up and down, yelling, "Shut it, shut it!" even after it was too late. My father and Henry appeared in the field a moment too late to see what I had done. They only saw Flora heading for the township road. They would think I had not got there in time. (Munro 430)That the action is almost involuntary - she takes no time to consider her options - shows that she truly wants to set the horse free, just as she herself yearns for freedom. By taking this action in defiance of her father, she actually does gain a measure of freedom, mixed with the bittersweet knowledge that with that freedom comes a responsibility which she prepares to endure. She has learned to not value her fathers approval of her actions so much as her own.
I supposed Laird would tell. I wondered what would happen to me. I had never disobeyed my father before, and I could not understand why I had done it. Flora would not really get away. They would catch up with her in the truck. Or if they did not catch her this morning somebody would see her and telephone us this afternoon or tomorrow. There was no wild country here for her to run to, only farms. What was more, my father had paid for her, we needed the meat to feed the foxes, we needed the foxes to make our living. All I had done was make more work for my father who worked hard enough already. And when my father found out about it he was not going to trust me any more; he would know that I was not entirely on his side. I was on Flora's side, and that made me no use to anybody, not even to her. Just the same, I did not regret it; when she came running at me and I held the gate open, that was the only thing I could do. (Munro 431)The narrator knows perfectly well that her attempt to free the horse Flora is as vain as trying to free herself. But just as she finds that she must at least try to achieve freedom for Flora, she must do the same for herself, regardless of the risk. She accepts very willingly that there will be a punishment for her actions, that she will have to take responsibility for her choice of freedom, for she yet holds dear the ideals of self-sacrifice which seemed so important in her childhood. But that moment never comes. The only punishment she receives, and for her the worst possible, is for her father to utterly and finally disregard her.
In gaining freedom from her father, she must accept that he may never respect her in the same way again. Such an intangible punishment would be unbearable unless she comes to terms with who she truly is and does not allow the perceptions of anyone else to hinder that progress."Never mind," my father said. He spoke with resignation, even good humour, the words which absolved and dismissed me for good. "She's only a girl," he said.
I didn't protest that, even in my heart. Maybe it was true. (Munro 432)
The narrator in "Boys and Girls" undergoes a dramatic change with the conclusion of her story. She comes to realize that she is indeed the girl which everyone seeks to make her into, but because of the dreadful connotations which everyone associates with such a state, this transformation becomes not one of joy at discovery of one's true self, but of pain that one has become a useless and worthless thing. The freedom she encounters by rejecting her role for no reason but to avoid being controlled by others is really no freedom at all, for her actions are yet entirely based on the words of others. True freedom comes only when she allows herself to act as her personality dictates, even when it coincides with what others want her to be. And when that step is taken, one has grown. Attitudes and perceptions change for those who grow older, and though such alterations may be slight for this story's narrator, their impact becomes so great the effect reverberates through the remainder of her life.
Munro, Alice. "Boys and Girls." The Norton Introduction to Literature. Peter Simon, ed. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 1998. 422-432.