Here's my second place-winning entry to The Colony Public Library's 30th anniversary writer's competition. Thanks Kevin for encouraging me to enter. I love you!
On
Reading “To Kill a Mockingbird” for the 27th Time
I don’t remember a time in my life when I wasn’t aware of
Harper Lee’s only novel. My mother and sister referred to it often, quoted it
when the occasion presented, and Atticus stood but one notch below my own
father in my personal pantheon of male achievement.
I had heard so much about this book and seen my sister act
out the main scenes of the film so many times that by the time the paperback
became available to me through a school book sale and my mother handed over the
$1.95 Scholastic wanted for it, I could hardly wait to get it home.
I still have that yellow-covered paperback with its red-block
title font somewhere, although it’s the hardcover version I read now. I’ve read
“To Kill a Mockingbird” every summer since my seventh-grade year. This story
means summer to me. Summer and freedom. Freedom from school, freedom from kids
my age, freedom to read whatever I feel like reading- the freedom of
childhood.
The opening sentence is never far from me: “When he was
nearly thirteen, my brother Jem got his arm badly broken at the elbow,” and the
last sentence “He would be there all night, and he would be there when Jem
waked up in the morning,” crosses my mind every time my own daughter is sick.
This summer, though, I only managed to skim through the
book, but I watched the movie with my three year-old daughter. I watched it and
I watched her enthralled with the first half of the film, then watched her
drift off to her toys when things got serious and sad and adult- just as I had
drifted away from the sad stuff when I was a girl.
What strikes me now, listening to the book on CD and doing
dishes while everyone else is sleeping, is how life carries on. I vividly
remember thinking that things were “over” at each turning point in the book.
Scout goes to school and isn’t allowed to read with Atticus anymore. Miss
Maudie’s house burns down, Jem is waylaid by old Mrs. Henry Lafayette Dubose,
Scout is confined to petticoats and tea parties by Aunt Alexandra; Atticus’s
fellow citizens show up to lynch his client and him, too. How will things ever be the same?
As I grew up, each of these developments wrenched me,
saddened me, laid me low, but I kept reading, kept loving this book.
At forty now, it hits me. Alone at night, listening to the
book on CD and washing dishes while everyone else is asleep- this is what
happens: life carries on.
As children, as young people, every major shift in life is
the end- how will we go on? Our family
moves, our friends marry and move away, our loved ones die- life will never be
the same comforting tableau we’ve come to know.
Then we wake up the next morning. We brush our teeth, go to
work, take the kids to school- and things carry on. Tom Robinson may be gone;
Boo Radley may have been explained and demystified, but still we go on.
We carry on living and working and loving and reading- above
all, loving and reading. Then we share “To Kill a Mockingbird” with our
daughters. We share that sense of summer, of fun, of youth, of melancholy, of
fighting even though “we were licked a hundred years before we started.”
