Scout, Jem, Dill, and Atticus. Always Atticus

Some things I’ve learned from reading To Kill a Mockingbird aloud to my classes (four times ever day):

There’s something powerful in reading aloud.  I’ve always loved people reading stories to me, especially Christmas books that my mom would read to us as children.  And I’ve always loved reading books aloud.  One of my goals before I turn 32 is to somehow look into or audition for reading an audio book, simply because that sounds, quite literally, like my most ideal job. 

But besides all of that, there is some sort of power in reading Atticus’s words aloud.  In bringing Boo to life that way, in creating the aura of shadow around him in the beginning of the story, only to bring clarity to him at the end.

In reading this four times over every day, I’ve come to realize that the third time is really where I hit my stride.  The first is pretty good, the second almost there, but by the third pass through, I can hit all the inflections just right and I can anticipate the questions before they come.  By the fourth, I’m a little into autopilot.  But third is my sweet spot. 

I was prepared for my students to not really enjoy or appreciate this book.  I told myself before I started teaching it that it would be okay if they didn’t think it was amazing.  After all, I read it for the first time in tenth grade and while I loved it, it was only when I re-read it at 25 that I really adored it.  When I would’ve counted it one of my favorite books.  So if they couldn’t really get it at 12, that would be okay. 

I wasn’t prepared for them to feel so invested and involved so quickly.  Every day they come in and ask excitedly, “Are we going to read today?”

Granted, they don’t really see the whole picture sometimes: i.e. they think the title is going to be because Atticus shot a mockingbird when he was young and it’s haunted him all these years and that’s why he stopped shooting things.  Also, some of them are convinced that Calpurnia and Atticus are going to end up together. Sure guys, this is a town where a white man can, without any evidence, accuse a black man of rape and have him convicted, but a white man and a black woman will get married, no problem.  

But they’re loving it. And I’m loving how much they’re loving it.

In what might be the strangest comparison yet, I’ve realized there’s a moment for me in books that I love.  I call it The Silver Doe moment, because I first became aware of it in reading and re-reading and listening and re-listening to Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.  Now, for some reason that chapter where Harry and Hermoinie are camping and the silver doe patronus appears is one of my favorite moments in the whole series.  Certainly the Final Battle, the last 200 pages or so trump it in the way that only an epic climax to a classic hero story can.  The scene with Harry and Dumbledore is just too good for words.  But as a non-highest-point-in-4000-pages way, The Silver Doe is the shit.   I can’t explain it, I can’t say that anyone else necessarily feels the same, but for me, there’s something transcendent about that chapter, something that pulls on the very deepest heartstrings the way that only the best books do. 

I was reading aloud last week and I suddenly knew—my Silver Doe moment in To Kill a Mockingbird is when Atticus shoots the rabid dog.  Other details, especially of the beginning, fade away, but that chapter I remember with absolute clarity.  There’s something about that scene when Atticus, who up to this point is interesting because he allows his kids to call him by his first name, and who is otherwise notable for  He is not just an attorney, but a remarkable marksman who gave that up.  He has power that he lays aside, but is willing to pick it up again for the sake of his children and his town.  It’s a defining moment.

his deep river of tolerance and wisdom, becomes much more multi-faceted and slightly mysterious.

(On a side note, it’s moments like that which make stories worth reading, which give them their almost mystical power.  It’s moments like that which allow us to see a little further into the human condition that we ever could without sharing a story, and it’s moments like that which make the truth of the story the ultimate goal in reading.  It’s also why, when several years ago, some people tried to convince me that there were some books which were “unclean” and therefore inappropriate, that I felt it as an almost physical attack.  It’s why I still carry that year of teaching around, even four years later.)

But to continue the Harry Potter comparison, the real epic Final Battle is coming in To Kill a Mockingbird.  And in the same way that hearing Harry offer Voldemort forgiveness and a last chance at repentance in the end, strikes the most perfect chord within me, I cannot wait to be able to read the line where Scout makes us understand why the book is called To Kill a Mockingbird.  To come to that moment where the final piece of the puzzle lines up perfectly and things fall into place, and to share that with students.  All 120 of them.  I can’t even explain how excited I am.

Little Words of Wisdom

T is the best.  And so stinkin' smart :) 

My mom got a Lite Brite for my three year old nephew. He loves it.  She has drawn a spider, and an elephant, an owl and a giraffe, among numerous other animals, for him to see come to life with the transparent colored pegs.  He loves this toy, but he knows that he cannot design an animal, set it up, punch the holes and put the pegs in the correct space all on his own.  He wants those animals to exist, yet he knows that he can’t do it on his own.  And instead of insisting that he must be allowed to do it without assistance, he has a phrase, often repeated several times in quick succession: Help me! Help me, help me, help me! And of course I do.

I want to see him succeed.  I want him to experience delight in this and other things—putting puzzles together, building dinosaurs from Duplos. I love seeing his face light up when he helps with a certain part and to see him laugh when we finish a project.  Because I love him. 

So it makes me wonder—what am I holding back from that I really want to do because I know I cannot do it alone.  What am I avoiding because I know I would need help to pull it off.  What do I need to go to God with and say, “Help me! Help me, help me, help me!” Help me with knowing how to feel and react to a situation! Help me to know what to do and how to overcome! Help me to do what you’ve called me to do! Help me to figure out what you’ve called me to do in this situation!  If I, in my meager, earthly, sin laden love for my nephew, love to help him complete a Lite Brite elephant, what is it that the Savior of the world is looking to help me with? How much more help could I possibly expect or need than what would be provided?

It’s humbling to realize that in his totally innocent and too young to realize he’s an example way that my nephew knows where it’s at.  Look at who is bigger than you, look at who knows more and is stronger, and tell them what you want, knowing that love is on the other side.  Which isn’t to say that I always do everything for him, that I don’t sometimes say, “You can help,” to him or insist he do a small part himself.  But I know what he’s capable of alone, I push him a little bit beyond that, and then I step in to fill the rest of the void.  And I only know to do that because of the pattern Jesus established first. 

And I’m desiring so hard to know---what is going to move this from the theoretical to the practical? This is kind of an interesting, and hopefully helpful, little story, but what practically does it mean I should be doing differently in my life?

So while we’re using T as a good example, he has a longer, slightly funnier catch phrase of late.  It’s not ha-ha funny, but more, huh, what a funny thing for a toddler to say kind of funny.  He looks at you and says, “What did you say?” with the same intonation constantly.  Even when I’m pretty sure he heard me.  “What did you say?” Even when I think I’ve made it clear, even when I think it’s loud enough.  “What did you say?”

How often is God trying to get me to say that?  He himself says that He is often in the whisper, not the roar.  The subtlety that is so easy to miss if we aren’t looking.  He wants to constantly be asking, “What did you say?” What are we missing? What does he have for us—what does he want us to be asking for help in—that we haven’t quite picked up on.  “What did you say, God?” 

And whenever T asks, I tell him. I smile and repeat myself, not annoyed, but loving that this little person is in my life.  I don’t scold him for not paying attention, but love that he wants to know and is persistent enough to ask.  And again, this is earthly love for my nephew.  How much more will my Father in heaven respond with love for me if I come to Him and ask, “What did you say? Help me.”

I’m not saying T is a genius (but, c’mon, of course he is), I’m not saying he is the perfect example of faith like a child.  I am saying he is loved, and how we respond in love to his simple, real questions, might be a good example of how our Father wants to respond to us if we come to Him with our equally real, simple questions.