It was a half century ago that Harper Lee published her acclaimed novel
To Kill A Mockingbird, personalizing and immortalizing the fictional, but remarkably representative, story of the white lawyer Atticus Finch who defends a black man charged with raping a white woman in the Jim Crow South.
Maybe I read
To Kill A Mockingbird when I was too young to grasp its political and the sexual commentary, but fortunately writer Malcolm Gladwell
revisited the novel in a racial-political context in the New Yorker last week. Finch was fictional, yes, but the resemblance between Finch and 1950s Alabama Governor Big Jim Folsom is striking. They both humanize "the other," without ever crossing an activist line. They may have talked about a level playing field, arguing that black people deserve to be treated as people, too, but weren't ever willing to really put themselves and their careers on the line. "If Finch were a civil rights hero, he would be brimming with rage at the unjust verdict. [The defendant, though innocent, is pronounced guilty.] But he isn't. He's not Thurgood Marshall looking for racial salvation through the law. He's [Governor] Jim Folsom, looking for racial salvation through hearts and minds." To make race personal and moral is one thing, but to make it political is another entirely, and is something that far too few people were (and still are) willing to do.
Fast forward to today, to the horribly tense political discourse concerning gay marriage. Both Republicans and Democrats chatter on regularly about the gay people they know who are good people, too, and who deserve basic rights like hospital bedside visitation. No constituent would have an easy time arguing otherwise on basic moral grounds. But to argue for gay marriage or for substantive change is politically dangerous territory, and something that our elected officials tend to tiptoe around and never touch.
What's most interesting about Gladwell's musings on To Kill a Mockingbird is the assessment of unspoken presuppositions surrounding rape, women's sexuality, and race. Mayella Ewell, the character charging Tom Robinson, the alleged aggressor, with rape, was actually the sexual aggressor. Atticus Finch tell the jury, "She knew full well the enormity of her offense, but because her desires were stronger than the code she was breaking, she persisted in breaking it."
Most troubling about the manner in which I was taught To Kill A Mockingbird as a middle school student is the notion that Finch is a beacon of righteous leadership, when in fact he "does what lawyers did for black men in those days. He encourages [the jury] to swap one of their prejudices for another," making Mayella out to be a sex-starved, uneducated, dirty victim of incest with no social standing. It's easy to interpret the novel as an argument for transcending race, but Finch's morality falls to the lowest common denominator when it comes to considering "the eugenicist spirit of the times." Poverty serves as a legitimate legal criticism of Mayella; so does her sexual desire; and most disturbingly, so does her position as a victim of incest at the hands of her father.
The social context for To Kill A Mockingbird is one in which "white women retained their status as innocent victim only as long as they followed the dictates of middle-class morality." The novel succeeds in universally condemning racism, or at least bringing a critical lens to bear. But the novel also assumes that rape can be a manifestation of classism, and not that it is a priori wrong. Nobody stood to win in the hundreds of black man-against white woman rape cases heard in the Jim Crow South, where white women and back men were all positioned as victims, whether the allegations against them were true or not. -Sara