Growing up, Harper Lee’s name was spoken with great reverence. Having a mother who grew up in Texas, To Kill a Mockingbird, like most aspects of Southern culture, was spoken about often and with great respect.
I watched the movie at a (much too) young age, and though unable to fully process the complex racial issues at hand, I loved Scout and Jem’s sibling relationship. I was elated to find a character who, like me, was a tomboyish little sister whose older brother was both my hero and the most annoying person in my nine year-old world.
I never got around to actually reading the book until, like many American high school students, my 11th grade teacher assigned it. I was excited—I was finally going to read this ‘great American novel’ as my mother called it, and join the club of informed readers who understood a good book when they read one.
I somehow knew that I would love it, and I was right. I was completely taken by the story and even more by the writing. I filled the margins with notes—a practice that as an English major I now know is called ‘annotating’—which at the time I thought was rebelliously graffitiing (in pencil, no less) my observations of imagery, metaphor, and alliteration on a school-issued book.
Bypassing the traditional lecture style of teaching that most high school English classes tolerate, my teacher put us in a circle and instructed us to share our thoughts and reflections on any given section of the book. There was much to be analyzed and all were welcome to share; I was in literary heaven. In this class circle, my thoughts had value. I furiously underlined the complex sentence structures and commented on Scout’s sassy nature, trying to remember which points I wanted to bring up in class the next week. My contributions to the class were encouraged. To Kill a Mockingbird was the first time I was permitted to take ownership of a text, and I was hooked.
Reflecting on Harper Lee’s passing I realize that for readers like myself who find connection on pages of novels and nonfiction writing alike, authors are more than just the names on book covers. Reading and subsequently writing about books that I’ve enjoyed is what English professors refer to as “being in dialogue with the text.” I think in some strangely removed yet intimate way, in these moments of connection, a reader is in dialogue with the author, as well.
I (unfortunately) never had the privilege to meet Harper Lee. And yet, reading (and re-reading) her work feels like sitting on her front porch swing in Monroeville, Alabama, talking about her work and the parts of her life that she weaved into the text. (One of many examples: Lee’s father was the inspiration for the character of Atticus Finch; her close friendship with Truman Capote inspired the character of Dill.)
Lee’s skilled rhetoric challenged me to read and re-read the passages about Scout’s reflections on racism, southern narratives and courage to reconsider what I thought about these issues; to see beyond what the pages provided at first glance.
My interactions with Harper Lee’s writing taught me that there is room for my thoughts and interpretations of the texts that I read. I learned to ignore the esteemed reputation of To Kill a Mockingbird, and not to be discouraged from analyzing, questioning and above all, from taking ownership of a text that seemed so out of my reach. By ‘lending’ me her precious text to interact with and to (partially) own, Harper Lee reminds us that books are meant to be shared, and that readers are entitled to form opinions about said books, unapologetically.
If you ever find yourself reading a text for class and you can’t connect to it, or question its academic integrity, or even its purpose, remember that intellectual differences are not intrinsically bad. You are allowed to have opinions. You are allowed to be honest about your reading experience.
As I try to articulate my mourning for this great author’s death, the following quote—by none other than Harper Lee—echoes the timeless lessons that she taught me back in high school: “The book to read is not the one that thinks for you, but the one that makes you think.”