To Kill a Mockingbird

Personal Anecdote

I remember this one afternoon when I was in my professor’s office, asking for a correction on my quiz marks. He was an old man, but one of those beloved management professors everyone calls a “gem.” The kind who teaches the hard courses people voluntarily sign up for, just to feel like they’re really learning something. While I sound like I’m mocking that, I was absolutely one of them.

Now, asking for marks wasn’t my thing (I wasn’t “that guy”). But this time, I truly believed I had a case. I walked in with the kind of confidence you only get when you’re both right and also mildly offended that someone didn’t notice. We talked. About the quiz, yes, but also about life, purpose, goals; your standard issue life lecture, gently inserted into the conversation like a complimentary mint from old professors in linen shirts.

Eventually, after I showed him that my solution made sense and maybe his TAs were just a little off, he smiled and said, “You should read To Kill a Mockingbird.” That summer, while aimlessly window shopping with friends, someone pointed at a copy and said it was their all-time favorite. That sealed it. So, I picked it up.

First Impressions

And you know what? It’s an easy book. Clean writing, super simple words, chapters that fly by. Honestly, it makes sense that it’s taught in American high schools. I finished it in five days, with no effort. For comparison, I once spent those same five days getting through ten percent of Moby-Dick. That book makes you stop and reread multiple times, due to its diverse word choice and complex narrative styles. On the contrary, Lee’s writing is smooth. Maybe too smooth.

The first ten chapters set up an eerie, small-town mystery around Boo Radley. I was into it. I thought it was going somewhere dark and strange. But then, out of nowhere, the story takes a hard turn and becomes a courtroom drama about a Black man falsely accused of rape. The Boo storyline just fades. If I’d read this in school, I might’ve thought Boo was the villain and the moral was “don’t kill Black people”, and honestly, I’d have failed the test.

Hypocritic Portrayal

Now, Atticus Finch, a.k.a. The Quote Machine. There’s a moment that still feels off. Scout, who is eight years old, suggests that her brother Jem might’ve killed Bob Ewell. Atticus, their father, doesn’t pause. Doesn’t question it. Just accepts that his son may have murdered someone. No moment of reflection, no “maybe she’s confused,” nothing. That’s just absolutely terrible parenting. I mean, you’d think a father would stop for a second and defend his son, but no sir, he’s a lawyer and too moral for questioning a hazy claim made by a child after she got mugged by a stranger and was scared half to death. In fact, he immediately wanted to take his son to court himself, before the sheriff, who was far more emotionally intelligent, told him to shut the hell up and go back inside the house.

And more broadly, Atticus isn’t quite the hero he’s made out to be. Yes, he defends Tom Robinson. But he never really challenges the system that’s clearly crushing him. He follows the rules, even when the rules are the problem. His quiet nobility feels more like polite compliance. He gives a nudge to his son Jem that maybe he can change the law someday, but his tone was way too realist and rule-abiding to actually be encouraging to a teenage kid.

Back to the Publishing Year

Harper Lee was a white woman from the Deep South. Came from money. Studied law. Was close with Truman Capote. Her draft got heavily edited by Tay Hohoff at J.B. Lippincott & Co., who helped turn it into the tidy little morality tale it became.

Here’s my humble opinion: Mockingbird isn’t brave. It’s just neat in a way that makes it feel safe. And that safety? That’s exactly why it blew up. The book gives you racism, but it filters it through the eyes of a white child and her noble father. Meanwhile, Tom Robinson, the Black man at the center of the whole story, barely gets a voice. He’s treated like a stand-in, the symbolic mockingbird of the story,

when Atticus quotes:

“Shoot all the bluejays you want, if you can hit ’em, but remember it’s a sin to kill a mockingbird.”

And Miss Maudie adds:

“Mockingbirds don’t do one thing but make music for us to enjoy … That’s why it’s a sin to kill a mockingbird.”

It almost suggests that Black people exist merely to serve the growth arcs of noble white characters, accepting them as mere tools rather than human beings. He’s there to suffer so other people can learn something.

Still, the book won awards. Got a movie. Entered classrooms. I wondered why.

A lot of that has to do with timing. It showed up right when the Civil Rights Movement was gaining traction, and white America was starting to feel uncomfortable. Mockingbird offered just enough weight to feel important, but not enough to actually challenge anyone. You feel sad. You nod. You move on. No confrontation. No reckoning. Just a story that lets you feel kind without being shaken. To be fair, it does a few things well. The setting is vivid. The child’s perspective feels authentic. The prose is smooth. But the fact that this book is still treated as the book about race in America? That says way more about institutional fear around that time than literary greatness.

Meanwhile, during that same era, Black writers were going all in and getting ignored. Zora Neale Hurston died broke. James Baldwin was told to dial it down. Richard Wright got pushed out for being too political. They told the truth in ways that made people squirm. Mockingbird made people feel safe. That’s why it stuck.

Afterthoughts

Look, I get it. Books hit differently depending on when you read them. I’m 22. I’ve grown up watching documentaries, movies, and media that deal with race, cynicism, and injustice far more directly than this book ever does. So maybe I’m not the audience anymore.

But even so, I wouldn’t hand this book to a kid today. It’s outdated. Its politics are mild. And from a writing point of view, it doesn’t take any real risks. No bold structure. Just a smooth, quiet story designed not to offend. If a book becomes a classic because it comforted people during a tough time, fine. But don’t mistake that comfort for courage, which is what literature at its best can do.