To Kill a Mockingbird, or Not to Kill a Mockingbird

For a very, very long time, most of my students high school freshmen. Some years, I taught ONLY high school freshmen, around 200 of them a year. This is my first year since beginning teaching that I’m not teaching a single freshman English class. Which also means that it’s my first year teaching that I’m not teaching Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird.

I miss it. I miss Scout’s first day of school, loudly explaining that Walter Cunningham is poor to the entire class, rubbing his face in the dirt at recess, and asking him what in the SAM HILL he’s doing when he pours molasses all over his lunch. I miss Atticus, as wise and kindly as any old, wizard-y mentor in any fantasy novel, delivering sober truths about life and the way humans treat each other. I miss Dill’s antics and our brief glimpses into Calpurnia’s life, and Jem’s breakdown after the trial.

I miss a lot of the little details: tiny jokes and character moments that you could easily miss on a single read-through but are waiting like gifts in the knothole of a tree for anyone waiting to look for them.

It’s just a beautiful book. Better than that, I think it’s the perfect literary starting point for American kids. Sure, the book is set a very long time ago, and sure there are deeper and more nuanced novels out there. But Mockingbird can open conversations into just about anything: poverty, sexism, racism, justice, societal expectations, religion, assault, empathy, and, perhaps most importantly, Ham costumes.

I think one of the fairest criticisms leveled against the book is that it is, at the end of the day, a white woman’s account of American racism. It is inherently limited. And I agree, it’s no substitute for insights by authors of color and their own experiences with racism. But I can’t escape the feeling that To Kill a Mockingbird is part of a complete, literary breakfast for American readers.

It’s a novel about growing up and starting to realize the problems that have been around you your whole life. It’s about the cost of growing up, and the unexpected benefits of empathizing with your fellow humans, even when it’s hard. It’s about seeing past what others see and finding the mockingbirds in life: the type of kind and innocent people who deserve to be protected, and making sense of a world that would harm them.

At the end of the novel, Atticus tells Scout that most people are nice, when you finally see them. As long as I’ve been teaching the book, that line gave me pause. It’s a little syrupy sweet, especially given all of the heartache in the novel. But there’s an irresistible comfort reading it every time. I don’t know if I believe Atticus Finch. I don’t know if Atticus is qualified to make that judgment, given the relatively charmed life he’s managed to lead. But it’s nice bundling myself up in that sentiment once or twice a year, anyway. It’s nice to imagine a place where you can see the worst qualities of the world, and still have a safe space to rest in.