To Kill a Mockingbird: Where Tears Go

A wonderful, even magical, attribute of reading is that each individual’s reading experience is unique.  As English novelist Angela Carter states, “Reading a book is like re-writing it for yourself.  You bring to a novel, anything you read, all your experience of the world.  You bring your history and you read it in your own time.” Every reading experience is unique to the individual, dependent on each individual’s unique life experiences.  In the same way, I believe no individual reads a text the same way twice.  Even if an individual has read a text before, revisiting the text with new life experiences creates a new perspective, a new lens, through which the reader absorbs the text in a new way.  I found this true as I read “To Kill a Mockingbird” for the third time.  Even though I had enjoyed the novel in my past readings, the life events I experienced between my last reading and now enabled me to approach the text with a new perspective, gaining insight from new passages and finding myself drawn to parts of the novel I previously regarded as  inconsequential or irrelevant. 

“‘Things haven’t caught up with this one’s instinct yet.  Let him get a little older and he won’t get sick and cry.  Maybe things’ll strike him as being---not quite right, say, but he won’t cry, not when he gets a few years on him…Cry about the simple hell people give other people---without even thinking.  Cry about the hell white people give colored folks, without even stopping to think that they’re people, too” (p.201).  Embedded in a passage of dialogue between Mr. Dolphus Raymond, Dill, and Scout, these lines of text present an intriguing question concerning the “coming-of-age” experience.  Dill, presented in the text as young and somewhat naïve concerning the workings of Maycomb court, cannot understand why the town prosecutor, Mr. Gilmer, treats the black defendant Tom Robinson condescendingly.  Dill’s frustration and unbelief boils into tears. Scout attempts to dry these tears through an explanation that Mr. Gilmer’s behavior is accepted because it is the way whites have always treated blacks in the town, it is simply the way things are. 

While Scout cannot understand Dill’s confusion, Mr. Raymond, a man known for his fraternization with the black community and his drinking, understands the inability of the innocent to accept racial discrimination and hate.  Mr. Raymond suggests that Dill’s inability to accept the mistreatment of Tom Robinson stems from an innocent nature.  Dill’s innocent instinct does not understand societal expectations, behaviors deemed “acceptable” due to tradition, blind tolerance justified by convention; instead, his innocence leads him to view hate as hate, evil as evil, and cruelty as cruelty regardless of the practices and laws adopted by a corrupted a society.  Mr. Raymond recognizes Dill’s current state of innate innocence as a temporary stage, in which he can live guided by only conscience, untouched and uncorrupted by the knowledge and philosophies indidvuals acquire with age.  Once Dill reaches a certain age, his fury with hate and puzzlement over racism will fade; the society he will grow up in will teach that hate and racism are accepted social norms.  After years of observation, Mr. Raymond knows that eventually Dill will stop asking “why”, allowing himself to “come of age” and accept the present conditions as merely “the way things are”.  As he encounters racism and hate, Dill’s tears will no longer fall, for who cries at something that is expected and accepted?   

In this passage, Mr. Raymond suggests that “coming of age” is an abandonment of innocence, a surrender of independent thought and emotion and acceptance of the world in its current condition.  Mr. Raymond, married to a black woman and the father of children of mixed race, obviously lacks the racial prejudice and hate that is commonplace in Maycomb; however, his “coming of age” taught him to accept the racism around him and hide his beliefs in a paper sack of whiskey.  Rather than crying at the hate and racism, Mr. Raymond lives a charade, hiding behind alleged drunkenness to explain his incompatibility with Maycomb’s racist expectations.  Rather than fighting what he knows is wrong, life has taught Mr. Raymond to accept his corrupt world for what it is.  Once, Mr. Raymond probably cried the same tears as Dill; however, time and age dried these tears into a mask of tolerance.

There is no doubt in my mind that “coming of age” involves a loss of innocence.  Life strips indidvuals of ignorant bliss and confronts them with cruel, cold facts of reality.  However, in order to “come of age”, must one accept these facts as valid and reasonable.  When confronted with the world’s hate, must one simply accept this hate as a natural occurrence, an aspect of reality to be accepted and never challenged?  Certainly, this question is food for thought as one explores his or her own “coming of age” journey.  

Mohammed: Meeting #3

I sat at a table in the café of the TCU library, flipping through the latest Skiff as I waited for Mohammed to arrive.  Each time I finished an article, I glanced at the front doors, hoping to see Mohammed entering the front doors; yet as the minutes ticked by, Mohammed did not show up.  After twenty minutes, I began to fold up the newspaper, reigned that Mohammed’s tardiness was an indicator of ultimate absence.  Just as I turned to exit, I heard the sound of echoing footsteps bouncing off the walls and corridors of the otherwise empty library.  Out of breath, Mohammed ran to the table and pulled out his chair, bearing a wide and mischievous smile.  Eager to proceed with our conversation in our now reduced interval of time, I quickly inquired about his past week.  In response, he pulled a pair of car keys out of his coat and gingerly set the key ring on the table.  At first, I had no idea what this action signified, clueless about what this key ring signified.  Suddenly, I remembered a conversation from the previous, a conversation about his hope to purchase a car.  As I realized the importance of the keys, I began to smile as well.  

The week before we had shared in mutual frustration concerning our lack of vehicles; now, we were able to mutually share in the joy stemming from Mohammed’s new car ownership.   Mohammed told me that he had spent the past weekend studying for his driver’s exam and had just acquired his driver’s earlier that week.  Already, Mohammed had plans to drive to Dallas or Oklahoma during Spring Break, exploring the freedom of his driver’s license and new car.  He could barely contain his enthusiasm at the prospect of spending the break with his Saudi Arabian friends and family, eating traditional Arabian food and being surrounded by his Arabian culture.  For Mohammed, his driver’s license and car meant more than a fun weekend or a more convenient means of transportation; to Mohammed, a driver’s license and car provided him with connection to his culture, family, and friends. 

After discussing his license and car for a while, we began discussing our families.  Mohammed and I compared our family structures.  Mohammed and I both have multiple siblings varying widely in age.  Mohammed revealed to me that he misses his youngest brother, age 2, the most.  After struggling to describe his brother accurately in English, Mohammed opened a file on his phone which contained a photograph of his younger brother.  Like Mohammed, I share a special bond with my youngest brother.  Mohammed and I compared our younger brothers, laughing at each other’s family antidotes and recollections.  Despite our cultural differences, many of our stories contained the same basic elements of humor.  We both shared stories about our younger siblings’ misbehaviors and temper tantrums, laughing at our common experiences. 

We also discussed our older siblings’ weddings, comparing and contrasting the practices of our cultures.  While Mohammed’s cousin’s wedding cost his family approximately $50,000.00, my brother’s wedding only cost $10,000.00.  As we discussed the food served at the weddings, Mohammed explained to me that the men would be served extremely fatty meats while the females would typically be served a different menu course containing more nutritious dishes.  I must not have masked my feelings of disturbance concerning this sexism, because Mohammed quickly began explaining the custom.  He was insistent on clarifying this custom as a cultural practice rather than a sexist regulation, attempting to red me of any negative attitudes towards his culture.  After regrouping, I was able to engage in conversation with Mohammed and understand that not all gender guidelines in his culture are meant to be sexist.  After wrapping up our conversation, we resolved to meet again after Spring Break, parting ways on an amiable and positive note.

Huck Finn Reading Questions (Better Late Than Never)

1. Have you read the novel-Huck Finn-before?  If so where and why?

Yes, I read the novel three separate times during high school.  I first read the novel as a summer reading assignment before my freshman year, keeping a dialectical journal about the novel.  The second time I read the novel was as a junior in preparation for the AP Language and Composition exam, examining the themes and symbolism in the novel as well as the controversy surrounding the novel. I read the novel a third time as a senior in high school as I prepared to be a teacher assistant in a freshman English course.  I read the novel this third time as a review of the key facts so I could properly grade the students’ papers.

2. What was your response to reading Huck Finn, and what do you remember from your reading?  Also, did you actually read the whole novel, or just parts of it?  Did you read Cliff Notes or Monarch Notes instead?

I remember enjoying the book every time I read it.  In my high school, Spark Notes and Cliff Notes were essentially considered contraband, earning you detention or grade reduction if you were caught with the materials.  The teachers were strict in order to ensure that students were not simply reading these study materials in place of the actual text; however, if you wished to read these resources as supplemental information, you took a huge risk.  The first time I read the novel, I was taken aback by the use of the “n-word” and felt uncomfortable every time I read it.  The second time I read the novel, I was still appalled by the language and could not understand its purpose.  My classmates shared this viewpoint and raised the question in class to our teacher.  Our teacher, prepared to cover the themes and symbolism in the novel, abandoned her previous lesson plan in order to help us understand the controversy surrounding the book and the interpretations of the “n-word’s” significance/purpose in the novel.  After learning about this controversy and the opinions regarding Twain’s use of the “n-word”, I was able to read the text a third time the following year with a new and enlightened perspective, allowing me to read the novel on a deeper and more significant level.

3. If you were assigned to read Huck Finn in a previous class, either here or in high school, how did your class as a whole react to the novel?  Why do you think your instructor assigned the novel?  How did he or she try to "teach" the novel?

The first time I read the novel, our class did not even discuss the book.  The book was assigned as a summer reading project, due the first day of school.  After we turned in the project, the book was never mentioned again. 

When I read the novel for my AP course as a junior, our teacher conducted lessons on the material and related topics for approximately one month.  As a class, we explored the themes and symbolism found in the novel; but the most memorable discussion was about the controversy surrounding the banning of the novel in many public settings.  Our teacher showed us two documentaries interviewing a variety of intellectual authorizes concerning the controversy.  Our teacher was a strong proponent of valuing differing opinions and regarding multiple perspectives as existent and valid.  The way she taught the novel reinforced her efforts to aid us in valuing and acknowledging the existence of different perspectives.

4. If you were required to read Huck Finn in a previous class, what sort of assignments were you required to complete, and what exactly did you do during the classes when Huck Finn was being discussed?

Often, teachers required students to keep dialectical journals, responding to two or three quotations from the text for each chapter of the novel.  Also, teachers created quizzes to test basic knowledge of the text concerning characters, events, plot, and symbolism.  My AP teacher held discussion circles each class period in order to facilitate open discussion concerning the novel.  These discussions were great opportunities for students to respond to the novel in an open and welcoming environment as well learn from the perspectives of other students.

5. Huck Finn is still one of the most controversial and most banned books in America.  Why is it so controversial?

While controversy surrounds Twain’s frequent use of the “n-word”, I think the main controversy surrounding the text is Twain’s portrayal of blacks through the character of Jim.  In one of the documentaries, several prestigious black professors from leading universities criticized Twain’s portrayal of the black race through the often superstitious and ignorant Jim.  While Jim is considered one of the novel’s most human and naturally “good” characters, his adherence to superstitious beliefs and practices, combined with his servant-like following of Huck, propagates a negative image of the black race.  I remember one professor stated that they did not oppose the use of the “n-word” as much as Twain’s characterization of Jim as ridiculously superstitious.

Conversely, many regard the novel as an accurate portrayal of the time period and a condemnation of slavery and racism.  For this reason, many educators support this novel’s presence in libraries and classrooms, establishing a controversy surrounding the novel.

6. Is Huck Finn still relevant to you as a college student today?  Should it continue to be taught in college classrooms?

I think that Huck Finn should continue to be taught in both high school and college classrooms.   This book addresses more than racism or slavery; it also addresses the innately corrupt nature of man and the depraved condition of humanity.  From a strictly literary standpoint, this book is an excellent example of symbolism and dialect, making it an asset to the classroom solely based on its literary merit.

7. The general consensus among critics is that Huck Finn is a brilliant and powerful novel, but also a flawed and problematic novel.  What do you think might be flawed and/or problematic about the novel?

I think the biggest flaw in Twain’s novel is the last section of the text, when Tom Sawyer enters the novel.  Until this point, Twain had created a novel that boldly addressed the racism and corruption of the time period; however, once Tom Sawyer enters the story, Twain’s credibility is diminished as the novel begins to resemble a typical boyhood adventure story.  However, this section still serves to explore the nature of man and the inhumanity of society.

Mohammed: Meeting #2

As Mohammed approached me in the library Friday afternoon with a warm smile, I was immediately reassured that our conversation would be as easy and free flowing as our first meeting’s conversation had been.  After inquiring about how each other were doing, we transitioned into talking about our past weeks.  I asked Mohammed about his trip to visit friends in Norman, Oklahoma; Mohammed asked me about my tests and projects from the previous weeks.  As we conversed, Mohamed and I were honest with each other, boldly expressing our feelings of both triumph and frustration.  For some reason, there were no walls between me and Mohammed; we never lied about our emotional states or experiences, we never tried to impress with exaggerated antidotes or falsified stories.  We have refused to paint unrealistic pictures of our lives; and as a result, Mohammed and I have established a relationship founded on principles of trust and honesty, a relationship that allows us to talk about our feelings and experiences without the risk of judgment or embarrassment.  By exposing our flaws and troubles, we have discovered that we share similar frustrations and emotions despite our obvious cultural differences.

One of our main topics of conversation stemmed from our shared frustration of not having a car or other form of personal transportation.  We discussed all the difficulties attributed to a lack of transportation.  We enthusiastically shared personal antidotes about missing events or being left out of activities, laughing as we shared similar stories of confusion and frustration.  Mohammed revealed to me his plans of buying a car from Saudi Arabia during the summer.  He told me that he plans to buy a sports car from a friend of his father, costing $5,000.00-$10,000.00 less than similar sports cars sold in America.  After he described his idealized sports car to me, he sighed and looked down at his hands, muttering that he would prefer to buy a motorcycle.  When I asked him why he didn’t simply buy a motorcycle if he wanted one, he explained to me that pressure from his father often dictates his life decisions.  According to his father, a motorcycle would present a negative image to Mohammed’s future customers, propagating an image of rebellion and deceit that would accompany Mohammed for the rest of his professional life.  Mohammed, bound by cultural expectations and stereotypes, will be forced to purchase a vehicle against his preference in order to appease his father and his potential customers.  Mohammed’s dilemma made me realized how much freedom I have in America; the simple ability to purchase a vehicle without the overwhelming pressure of social expectation is a freedom I have never acknowledged before and take for granted on a daily basis. 

The rest of our conversation revolved around family.  Mohammed explained that he had missed our scheduled meeting last week because he was skyping his family in Saudi Arabia.  He told me that his father, owner of his own company, traveled for 3-5 days at a time; as a result, his whole family is only at home together approximately one day per week.  I immediately sympathized with Mohammed since my family also lives far away and rarely has a chance to skype me due to conflicting schedules.  We discussed how wonderful video chatting is and described our families for one another.  Mohammed animatedly talked about his large family, comprised of his father, mother, brother, and six sisters.  He reminisced about his favorite memories concerning his siblings and lamented that he was missing his youngest sister, one year old, growing up.  He inquired about my family and eagerly listened as I told him about my mom, dad, older brother, and two younger brothers.  We jokingly suggested that we switch families with one another, giving me the opportunity to live with all his sisters and him the opportunity to live with all my brothers. 

Our conversation was so effortless and engaging that we did not realize how fast time had elapsed.  Before we knew it, our hour of conversation was over.  Since we both had plans following the meeting, we quickly said goodbye and promised to meet again the following week.  He wished me luck on my exams and I wished him good luck on his ESL presentation due the following week.  Walking back to my dorm, I could not help but smile, knowing that Mohammed and I were becoming friends who could share our common interests, feelings, and experiences with one another despite our starkly different cultures and upbringings.

Grandpa Mac: My Favorite Pal

I have always been my Grandpa Mac’s “favorite pal”; yes, his favorite, despite the fact that grandparents are supposed to never have favorites.  My Grandpa and Grandma McDonald, also known as Grandpa and Grandma Mac to my brothers and me, are my dad’s parents and live in Dayton, Ohio.  Every year, my family travels to Ohio at Christmas to visit our relatives, including my grandparents.  When I was little, I remember pulling up to my grandparents’ house, watching the window for any sign of a dancing shadow in the illuminated windows of the brick house. Each year, I hurried to unfasten my seatbelt and elbowed past my older brother to open the sliding car door.  As I ran up the stone path that led to the mahogany door, my brother pushed past me, arriving at the door first and celebrating his triumph by ringing the doorbell.  But before the first chime even rang, my Grandpa Mac would swing open the door and greet my family with a warm “Howdy”.  One by one we walked into the foyer.  My Grandpa Mac always greeted us in the same order: my brother(s) first, my parents second, and me last.  When my turn arrived he boomed in a loud, confident voice, “There’s my favorite pal!” enveloping me in a strong, affectionate hug.    Some of my earliest recollections involve time spent with my Grandpa Mac, my favorite relative and my “favorite pal”.

When I was little, my Grandpa Mac was truly a pal.  While we were visiting, he would sit down and eat breakfast with me every morning.  As he ate his bowl of Wheaties, I ate my smaller bowl of Cheerios; if my parents were not around, he would mischievously add a spoon of sugar to the bland Cheerios.  When my parents walked in to check on me, he would give me a playful wink and continue eating, commenting on how healthy my breakfast was.  Late at night, my Grandpa would sit in his large blue arm chair, eating salted peanuts and watching Fox News.  No one was allowed to sit in that chair except my Grandpa Mac, an unspoken rule in the house; however, he would let me climb onto his lap and watch the news with him, slipping me a salted peanut every commercial break. 

Hung throughout the old house were pictures of my Grandpa from service during World War II.  After seeing the photographs for so many years, these pictures have been ingrained in my memory: the confident pilot standing with his team, the charismatic youth smiling mischievously at the camera, the intelligent solider glancing over maps by the wing of his aircraft.  My parents always told me that my Grandpa Mac was a brave man who flew airplanes during war, but these words meant nothing to me.  To me, my Grandpa was a friend, a partner in crime; the Grandpa Mac I knew was not the faded photograph on a wall.  He was the proud, independent man trimming the hedges and watering the perfectly manicured lawn.  Over the years, I have learned more about his heroism and service; and while I am proud of his past, I value his presence more than his medals and photographs from the past.  

Last Christmas, my family and I embarked on our yearly trip to Ohio; but instead of pulling into the driveway of my grandparents’ house, we pulled into the parking lot of “Friendship Village: The Friendliest Place on Earth”.  Three years ago, much to the dismay of my Grandpa Mac, my grandparents sold their three story house and moved into this assisted living center.  As we walked up the sidewalk to the front entrance, we saw my Grandpa Mac sitting patiently on a bench waiting for us to arrive, his thin body wrapped in a scarf and his balding head covered by a bowler hat.  After greeting both my brothers and my parents he turned to me, opened his arms, and greeted his “favorite pal”. 

Even though he had to use a walker and carry an oxygen tank, my Grandfather led the way up to the apartment, walking beside me every step of the way.  Once we reached his apartment, he sat down in his blue arm chair to rest, exhausted from the short journey.  After saying hello to my Grandma Mac, I sat next to my Grandpa Mac as he drifted off to sleep.  As he slept, I glanced through his photo albums which contained his pictures from his service during World War II.  When he awoke, he looked through the photographs with me, retelling humorous antidotes about his friends and escapades during the war.  His arthritic hands struggled to turn the pages and he strained to make out the details of the pictures through his wide rimmed glasses.  Every five minutes, his oxygen machine would kick on with a hiss, causing him to jump as fresh air was forced through his nose.  Yet despite his physical aging, his voice remained confident and strong.  The night we left, we visited my grandparents one last time to say our goodbyes.  After he said goodbye to my brothers, my mom, and my dad, he turned to me, beckoning his “favorite pal” to hug him goodbye.  As I gingerly bent down to hug my Grandpa Mac, he patted my face, kissed my cheek, and told me how much he would miss his favorite pal.

My Grandpa Mac has always been my favorite relative, my hero, and my friend.  Some of my earliest memories are from spending time with him, whether it was attending a basketball game he ushered or attending Christmas Eve candlelight mass at midnight.  Over the years, I have learned about his military history and his heroism during World War II.  My Grandpa Mac was a pilot during the war, one of the first pilots to fly over Hiroshima after the atomic bomb was dropped to take pictures of the aftermath.  He has countless photo albums containing letters, pictures, and articles which are meant to reveal his heroism and success, yet he is never the person to bring these accolades up.  My Grandpa Mac is a humble hero, who values love over medals.  As he has grown older and been forced into a life of dependency, he struggles to retain his autonomy and independent spirit, a struggle I respect and admire.  He refuses to ride a motorized wheelchair, choosing instead to painfully walk with the aid of a walker; he keeps a bottle of brandy hidden in the cupboard (referring to it as “special medicine”) against the orders of his doctors.  During our visit last Christmas, my Grandpa would slip me pieces of candy, giving me his special wink, just as he did years ago at the breakfast table.  My Grandpa Mac has always been, and will forever be my “favorite pal”; nothing, not even time, can change that.