Yesterday was Father’s Day in the U.S., and when I think about fatherhood, the stellar examples in my own life come first to mind. My childhood and motherhood — ok, my personhood — would not be the same without the strong, wise, supportive, unconditional love and guidance of these outstanding men. I’m grateful for their influence and presence every day.
As a reader, though, I have also been granted the gift of an imaginary father figure that has shaped my perspective and expectations ever since I first met him. He is thoughtful, smart, compassionate, and soft-spoken, yet he is also a passionate and courageous crusader for justice and fairness. He had faced hardships in the past but didn’t wallow in grief; instead, he remained focused on making others’ lives better. He is a brilliant and committed professional, yet still finds time to be a pretty great dad. He isn’t perfect, but he is a good man.
In case you haven’t figured it out by now, this fictional character is Atticus Finch.
I first read To Kill a Mockingbird when I was 11 or 12, when it was still a new and surprising (and wonderful) thing to realize books had the power to gut me. It was the first book that ever made me cry. I remember this was not cool, either, because while I was probably safely in the privacy of my bedroom or the back porch when reading most of this book, I distinctly remember being on the schoolbus and fighting back tears while reading the last chapter. I know now that these are experiences to be cherished, when a book can transport you this fully and beautifully, but try telling that to my elementary-school self.
For a “classic,” this book was also accessible and compelling, full of memorable people. I loved Scout and wanted to be her (she drank coffee and called her father by his first name!). I adored Calpurnia and her tough love. I was fascinated with and touched by Boo Radley. But the character who kept coming back to me as I grew (and as I re-read the book for classes in high school and college, and then just for the heck of it) was Atticus, Scout’s dad and defender of all that was good and right, at home and in the courtroom.
When I first read the book, I thought Atticus was dreamy. Maybe subconscious visions of Gregory Peck, from the movie version, were creeping into my thoughts, but I just knew he was not only handsome, but dignified and classy, too. He was book smart, but also wise, two things even at that young age I recognized as important but not interchangeable qualities. He was somehow both a vital part of the book’s small-town community, good and bad, and also above it all.
When I was a teenager and just starting to get fired up about fairness and social justice, wow, was he ever an unwitting poster boy for all I believed was right. After all, Atticus was the vehicle Harper Lee used for so many of the great life-lesson quotes from the book. And it helped my sometimes unfettered passion to remember to hold my “head high and keep those fists down. No matter what anyone says to you, don’t let ‘em get your goat.”
Then, when I was a young adult, first venturing into a professional world where I suddenly couldn’t trust my instincts about people, learning the hard way that life wasn’t always rosy, or even fair, Atticus kept me hopeful. I knew he was fictional, but if someone could even dream him up, he had to be at least possible. I needed to know there where things worth fighting for, whatever the odds against you.
After all, Atticus is the one who said of real courage: “It’s when you know you’re licked before you begin but you begin anyway and you see it through no matter what. You rarely win, but sometimes you do.”
Now that I’m old – er, more mature – his beautiful words are still worth revisiting. I might have become more cynical. From time to time, I am depressed and powerless and feel like all the decisions in my life are being made without me. But even when I’m at my loneliest, Atticus reminds me that integrity is a sacred and personal battle: “Before I can live with other folks I’ve got to live with myself…The one thing that doesn’t abide by majority rule is a person’s conscience.”
Maybe by today’s stereotypes Atticus, as a lawyer, is an unexpected teacher of empathy. I have two children who are currently studying to be lawyers. If law school itself doesn’t do it, I hope Atticus (or their mom’s obsession with To Kill a Mockingbird) gets this message into their heads: “You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view… Until you climb inside of his skin and walk around in it.” In other words, make the argument. But respect the other side, and try to be kind.
I hope they will remember, too, what a profound privilege they will have one day when they are participating in our country’s legal system. Justice is more than an aspiration, it’s an equalizer.
“There is one way in this country in which all men are created equal—there is one human institution that makes a pauper the equal of a Rockefeller, the stupid man the equal of an Einstein, and the ignorant man the equal of any college president. That institution, gentlemen, is a court…Our courts have their faults as does any human institution, but in this country, our courts are the great levelers, and in our courts, all men are created equal.”
I believe that intellectually. And I get to return to this great fictional dad, in (arguably) the greatest work of American literature, to help me feel it viscerally if I forget.
I’m fortunate enough to have the best ever real-life fathers in my life. But it makes my heart happy to know that books – specifically this one – can give anyone a taste of the mentorship, universal wisdom, and personal compassion of a good man, whenever it’s needed. Whoever we are, we can benefit from reaching for these lessons and listening to them whenever – or however – they’re offered.
For all you are to those who look up to you – thanks, Dad. And thanks, Atticus.