Like most little girls, I grew up loving Disney! From the ridiculously catchy songs to the funny townspeople to the predictable, yet magical romances, I was easily happy once someone put on Cinderella and gave me a tray of snacks (some things never change, actually…)
Despite my love for all Disney princesses–I truly did not discriminate–there was one that was specifically appealing to me.
I didn’t necessarily care for Beauty and the Beast. The beast was a glorified yak, Cogsworth and Lumiere annoyed me, and Marius was only relevant for the first 30 minutes of the movie. Belle, though–she was where it was at. I loved her at the beginning of the movie, running through flowered fields dreaming of a better life and charming the old bookseller. I loved her rejecting Gaston and his unwanted advances and helping her father when he had trapped by a cruel and unforgiving creature. I loved her in the castle, befriending the servants while waiting for the beast to get over himself. I loved her pink furry hood and her yellow dress and her apron. Frankly, Belle was my girl.Â
In retrospect, regardless of how funny or entertaining she or the movie was, my love for Belle went deeper and more important than any song or dance. Belle was not just a beautiful girl or a princess or even someone who could sing. She was smart and she was powerful and she was important, and why? Because she was reading a book. From the first time I watched Beauty and The Beast to my running to see it in live-action with Emma Watson–my other bookish childhood idol–the story has brought me joy through its strong female characters, and all of their noise.Â