Feminism, is, most simply, the equality of all genders and sexes. It is made to include all types of people from all walks of life -- something which is essential to human culture. To Kill a Mockingbird reflects many different aspects of feminism; from misogyny to the patriarchal system in which society functions, it all ties into the novel and life itself. This originates from the author’s childhood and the environment in which she grew up in. Harper Lee grew up in Monroeville, Alabama: a small country town where southern ideals were strictly enforced. Gender roles were rigidly established for men and women. Women were quiet, calm childbearers and men were the strong working people who ran the household. The patriarchal views which permeated society prevented women from behaving in any way which could be deemed as masculine and kept men from exploring femininity. Harper broke and bent these stereotypical roles, establishing herself as a ‘tomboy.’ Above all superficial labels and standards which people attempted to force upon her, she became a world renowned author. This characterization of her childhood self is shown through the character Scout Finch. Other influences around her, such as the way men treated women, what women could and couldn’t do, and the relationship between women’s view of themselves and men’s view of women is also shown throughout her novel. These nuances are hard to miss whilst reading To Kill a Mockingbird.
Women and men are presented very differently within the text, which supports the ideas of the patriarchal society Lee grew up in. Women were portrayed as religious, quiet housewives who were intrinsically more stupid than men yet still well-behaved and polite. They’re only worth their attractiveness and what they can contribute to children. A good example of this portrayal is given through the character Miss Maudie, who is a widowed housewife that now can only interact with children. This is because she is outcasted by the adults, since she doesn’t have a male companion in her life (Lee 47). Women are also hated by other women simply on the account of being a woman. Examples of this within Harper Lee’s text are when Jem expresses his content for Scout’s “g-irl,” and the fact that Scout must spend her days with Miss Maudie, simply because she is a girl (58; 46). This internal hatred also damages the character Scout. As one author states, “at the beginning of the book, Scout is introduced as an intelligent tomboy that plays with older boys and is known for her vicious fights. Later on, Scout begins to act more girly and more cautious about certain actions than her playmates” (Spotting Feminism in To Kill a Mockingbird: Analysis of Character-Scout). Scout is transformed by the internalized misogyny that To Kill a Mockingbird’s female characters possess. Not only this, but women are also given less page space and smaller stories than male characters. Miss Maudie, yet again, is a good example of this. She is given a paragraph of backstory, yet Atticus Finch, another main character, gets a full two page spread (Lee 47; 4-5). Atticus’ story also continues on throughout the novel, yet Miss Maudie’s backstory ends there. She is only talked about, from then on, in relation to other characters’ lives. Women are portrayed in a drastically different way than men are. In summary, they are viewed as stupid, unsuccessful, and subordinate to men. They also rarely get a full back story or duties other than things like house cleaning or childbearing.
On the contrary, men are given the roles of smart, well-rounded people who are allowed full-time careers. This is highly resemblant of the time in which Harper Lee grew up, as she watched women fail to obtain jobs simply because of their gender all of her life. Men, again, are rarely at home and are known to be strong. A concrete example of this characterization is Atticus Finch. Atticus is a lawyer who is only home from his extremely busy job at night (5). Not only that, but boys (and men) are allowed to make mistakes, as they’re “just being boys!” For example, Scout is punished at school for reading and writing, but Jem isn’t even punished for walking around outside without a pair of pants on, as Atticus states it’s “just a phase” (24; 61-2). Also, they are generally viewed as ‘greater’ than women and better in ways that are unfounded or unfair. Jem expressing his contempt for Scout’s g-irlish behaviors is, again, a prime example of this misogyny that occurs within the story; he says things like “I swear, Scout, sometimes you act so much like a girl it’s mortifyin’,” and tells Scout that “girls always imagined things, that’s why other people hated them so, and if [Scout] started behaving like one [Scout] could just go off and find some to play with” (42; 45). These ideals reflect greatly on when Harper Lee was a child, as she likely felt afraid of her own gender because of the hatred men expressed for it. The misogyny she internalized may be why she even acted like a tomboy in the first place. Growing up in the 20s and 30s affected men’s portrayal in To Kill a Mockingbird immensely, as shown.
The relationship between men and women is also presented in a way that references Harper Lee’s childhood environment. Men are portrayed as above women and inherently inferior, as femininity is viewed as a negative thing. Harper Lee, growing up in a small Alabama town, likely faced this relationship dynamic on a day-to-day basis. As one author states, Harper had a very weak, overly feminine mother and did not want to grow up to be powerless like her (Harper Lee: Feminist Lens: Analysis of Author - To Kill a Mockingbird). In addition, men are made to view it as bad to “act like a girl” and women are made to view it as bad to “act like a man.” This is because of the misogyny within the book and the misogyny within Harper Lee’s young environment. When she was younger, women and men both had very strict roles to fill and were not allowed to break or bend them in any way. In To Kill a Mockingbird, men and women both also rarely interact outside of a familial or romantic context. Husbands and wives may spend time together, and so may brothers and sisters, but that’s nearly it. An example of this occurring is when Jem refuses to talk to anyone besides his male friends at school, leaving Scout on her own (Lee 18). He doesn’t want to be seen playing with a girl around people he’s supposed to look masculine with. All in all, the relationship between men and women in To Kill a Mockingbird is very harmful and has power dynamics within it that are misogynistic and problematic, as that’s what Lee grew up around.
I cradled my cup of coffee to my chest as I watched you kiss her.
All I hope is that she gives you the same chills she gave me,
running up and down our spines like favorite poetry.
I hope you grow to understand that she is poetry herself,
and her curves and imperfections should become your favorite lines and stanzas.
I hope she still dips her tongue the same shy, adorable way when she kisses.
I hope she still has her same nervous ticks,
like curling her fingers through her hair.
I hope her heart is still as soft and pure as the day she left.
Because those pieces of her are what make her the most beautiful.
Her broken fingernails she swears are too dirty and split ends she’s been too lazy to cut out are intricate and gorgeously rich.
And that is what you must treasure the most.
Fill her empty soul and mend her broken heart.
Make her whole again,
because I sure didn’t.
Remember that she is art.
To be studied,
To be analyzed,
To be learned,
To be appreciated,
To be adored,
To be loved.
I can only hope you love her more than I did.
“high romanticism shows you nature in all its harsh
and lovely metamorphoses. flood, fire and quake fling us
back to the primal struggle for survival and reveal our gross
dependency on mammoth, still mysterious forces.”
— camille paglia
you helped me assemble myself
piece by piece,
moment by moment,
every painstaking memory by painstaking memory.
you didn’t just glue my frail, thin self back together, dear,
you rebuilt it from the ground up.
you touched my heart in ways no one has ever even bothered to.
you touched my skin in a way that felt like snow,
gently grazing against someone’s cheek on a cold day.
it was soothing.
it was calm.
you put the storm inside of me to rest;
you were the eye of my hurricane.
initially, life became sepia,
regaining warm brown hues after being stuck in black and white for so long.
then, you transformed me to a technicolor masterpiece,
like a child’s first finger painting.
i know it sounds cliche.
i know that no one can truly touch my soul.
i know i am unequivocally, absolutely,
entirely, alone in this universe.
but our infinite lonelinesses combined
make for a very beautiful, solemn scene.
life is like a lone, empty hole we fill.
we stuff it to the brim with memories, experiences,
and wondrous love.
you shine similarly to diamonds,
though your outside seems bulletproof,
like a rich mineral being tested in a laboratory,
you refuse to break.
you keep me strong.
you make me feel big in such a small world.
i feel nearly invincible now that you’re beside me.
you didn’t even need a blueprint.
you’re the perfect freehand engineer my heart needed.
i love it.
you gingerly reassembled my body,
similar to the way a sculptor molds his famous statues,
making me feel more like a masterpiece than i ever have.
you helped me realize that i,
i can be lovely, too.
i can be poetic and artistic.
i can be smart and witty.
i can be pretty and admirable.
and i damn sure am worthy of love
and someone who will stay not because they have to,
but because they want to.
because i can be compelling and mysterious.
i can be worthy
i can be.
because of you.
“how can i be reasonable? to me our love was everything and you were my whole life. it is not very pleasant to realize that to you it was only an episode.”
— william somerset maugham
i want to build a paper statue of myself,
and then tear it all apart.
an embarrassing effigy,
a shameful simulacrum,
a revolting representation of misguided attention and love gone wrong.
first, i will start with my skull,
fragile and bony, harboring all the memories of you…
every single solitary moment that you spent with me,
etching your image further into my frontal lobes, my neurons going ballistic at the thought of your perfect face.
every time you touched me,
softly imprinting my skin with the signature stamp of your fingertips,
like a teacher grading his favorite A-student’s paper.
every time you spoke,
enchanting my eardrums to commit your tone to memory.
every single time that our worlds collided,
sometimes resulting in a glorious revolution,
sometimes resulting in an apocalypse.
i will take it and wrench it open;
i want to leave it void of those memories.
it will be empty of your touches and words and thoughts and actions,
no matter how much my frail, tattered self screams that she still needs them for a rainy day.
my paper head is torn and battered.
next, i will move to my neck and shoulders.
here, i will scratch and scrape them to shreds.
my shoulders will be in shambles and my neck will be nothing but light, white, lined scraps.
this way, they will never recall the feel of your arms around them,
your oversized sweatshirt grazing their skin.
or your full lips,
curling as you smiled against the crook of my neck,
occasionally whispering rushed words and hushed kisses.
following that, i will continue to my arms, now dangling from my marred form.
i will split them in pieces,
destroying each one like an unsatisfied artist defacing his rejected work.
firstly, my cold, pointed hands,
which you gingerly grasped and kissed while i was distraught.
secondly, my tender, bruised forearms,
which you clutched to steady me when i panicked,
now littered with gashes and pale scars.
thirdly (and lastly), my soft upper arm,
which your bony knuckles punched as we jovially teased each other.
i will then move to my chest and stomach,
lying flat against the solemn setting.
i'll break open my chest,
savagely prying out my foolish, naïve heart that fell into your game.
my stomach is next, scarred by your warm touch,
which was like the feel of a space heater against your back on a winter morning.
i will watch the bits and pieces float away as i sense everything rushing back to my mind,
making me scramble to make sense of it.
remember the day we rolled on the dewy grass of the playground, tickling each other,
pretending this could be anything but mistaken?
or the one where we rode your sister’s old scooter down the pavement,
the sidewalk not taking kindly to your adorable stumbling.
finally, tiring of the thought of you,
which, unsurprisingly, managed to bring nothing other than mournful memories and sorrow,
chock-full of “what if’s” and “if only’s,”
i make my way to my legs and feet.
these legs are the same stocky structures that supported me as i leaned against you for photos,
the same chubby chopsticks that placed themselves in your denim lap on those rickety, rusted swings.
these feet are the same stubs that carried me along the path between my house and yours endless times.
i hate them.
they resonate within me as objects that only ever existed with you in mind.
they now amount to nothing but mounds of paper scraps and shredded memories.
− m. jarnot