Of Mockingbirds

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

There was a period from around the time I was in middle school until shortly after finishing college that I read Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird at least once each year. I still love the book, but it has now been a couple of years since I last revisited it. The themes of innocence protected, innocence lost, the collapse of ideals in the face of looming adulthood, and the clarity with which we remember childhood still resonate deeply each time I go back to the text. In all these years, though, it has never occurred to me to look up a picture of a mockingbird, or to listen to its song on the internet. I have always assumed the accuracy of my own imagination, I guess, and I have always believed Ms. Maudie when she insists, "Mockingbirds don't do one thing but make music for us to enjoy. They don't eat up people's gardens, don't nest in corncribs, they don't do one thing but sing their hearts out for us."

	Northern Mockingbird	Mockingbird Song

A few months back, I acquired the Merlin app. It is developed by the ornithological lab at Cornell University, and it identifies birds by written description, recorded song, or photograph. And it is free. You just agree to share your bird data with them for the sake of their research. It is an amazing app that I use often, and on which I depend when encountering birds I do not know when fishing. I was glad to have it several days ago when, as I walked from my room to the refectory in the main residence hall, my ears were assaulted by the raucous and obnoxious carrying on of some bird. "What the hell kind of bird is that?" I wondered, expecting some variety of crow or jay. Instead, Merlin identified a mockingbird. I heard the same raucous call earlier today. Merlin again identified a mockingbird. I find that I do not not agree with Ms. Maudie. The call of a mockingbird is not all that lovely. And it is fortuitous that I discover this truth just now.

The foundational idea of Harper Lee's novel is that the mockingbird, with its sweet song, is a symbol of innocence, goodness, and purity. It is a sin to destroy these things, and true heroes are those who dedicate themselves to their preservation. For this reason, Atticus hides his capacity to shoot well and take life from his children. For this reason, he defends the doomed Tom Robinson. For this reason, Heck Tate will not allow Arthur Radley to stand accused of murder. In this context, there appears to be a parallel between this novel and the call of the Bishops of South Dakota for people of good will to vote against Amendment G. It is a sin to kill a mockingbird. It is a sin to destroy what is beautiful. It is a sin to injure the innocent. It is a sin to deprive the unborn of life. 

I wonder, however, if I have not misunderstood Lee all along. What if it were an obvious irony to her southern readers to suggest that the call of a mockingbird is lovely. What if they really are notoriously boisterous and obnoxious -- something of a frustrating presence? What if mockingbirds, suddenly absent, would go unnoticed and their paucity unremarkable. What if a dearth of a mockingbirds were, in fact, something of a relief? Why bother about mockingbird if they do not contribute anything of note? I speculate about this after having spent entirely too much time arguing on the internet championing the proposition that the Church must stand in defense of the unborn, and that this issue merits special attention that is not afforded to other political matters about which Catholic Doctrine has much to say. Should we not also speak as vigorously about federal aid programs for the poor, efforts to expand medicare, or initiatives to preserve the environment from unscrupulous mining and extraction companies? Perhaps more to the point, are we not whitewashing the fact that for many, a baby is an unchosen burden, a sick baby or special needs baby an intolerable pain, and for a mortally sick mother, a sacrifice too heavy to bear. Have we too easily assumed the sweetness of the mockingbird's song? Do we too readily insist that every life is beautiful?

I want to be very clear. I believe and defend the Church's position as regards the dignity of life, and consider all that we teach to be not just a doctrine I am bound in conscience to promote, but also a conviction of my own. I affirm all that the Church teaches with regard to the dignity of life with full assent of my own intellect and will. I believe every word of it, and will defend it to my dying breath if I must. Toward that end, I spent fruitless hours yesterday and today painstakingly explaining Catholic opposition to Amendment G, I explicated our unwavering opposition to abortion for any reason, and I argued vigorously with the articulate, the inarticulate, the ignorant, the stupid, the belligerent, and especially with Catholics who ought to know better than the obtuse positions they propose. My impatience, especially with that final group, was obvious at times. It stung a bit, however, when one of my interlocutors suggested, "I see [the struggle of a woman in a difficult situation] as more complicated, I guess, than you do, or the church does." This is simply not true. I do not think I have ever lost sight of the fact that I am talking about ideals that affect the real lives of real women who face real suffering. It was a good reminder for me, however, to keep at the forefront of my mind that I am calling people to embrace a cross I will never have to embrace. For them, at least in the moment, the mockingbird does not sing beautifully. Its song is a burden the loveliness of which is a fabrication and the noise of which is a theft of freedom and self-agency. The temptation to silence the song is enormous.

The temptation for those of us in solidarity with the Church, at least sometimes, is to try to assign the value of the mockingbird's song to its utility to me without reference to anyone else. It is a sin to kill a mockingbird because I like mockingbirds. The mockingbird is good because I enjoy its song. It is good because it adds something to my life. These arguments, though true, are vulnerable because they do not take seriously that perhaps for another, the mockingbird has no utility and does not add value to life. At times, the mockingbird may even diminish another's immediate experience of happiness. If the goodness of the mockingbird and its song is relative to the subject who perceives it, the mockingbird has no real value at all. It is like trying to pay for gas with pictures of your children. They might mean something to you, but they have no value to the person standing at the cash register. 

I have always interpreted Lee as equating beauty and innocence with a right to exist. Now I hesitate. I don not think the call of a mockingbird is all that lovely, and I am not sure that she really thought so either. The mockingbird's value is not an issue of utility but of truth. This is demonstrated in the disdainful comment of Attitcus advising Jem and Scout to "shoot all the bluejays you want." The comparison to bluejays is not accidental. Bluejays are genuinely pretty birds. They are flashy, and draw the eye. But they are deceptive. They pretend to be something they are not. Through subterfuge, they convince us that they have utility, and because we mistake utility for goodness, they do a great deal of harm. They rob the nests of other birds. They kill and destroy. And we don't care because they delight our passions. "Shoot all the bluejays you want" could as easily read "denounce every lie you hear." 

Ms. Maudie only partially understands Atticus. She sees through the lies of the bluejay, but she only thinks in terms of utilitarianism. The mockingbird is good because of what it adds to life. "Mockingbirds don't do one thing but make music for us to enjoy. They don't eat up people's gardens, don't nest in corncribs, they don't do one thing but sing their hearts out for us," she opines. It is significant that Lee does not articulate the utilitarian argument in the voice of Atticus. For him, the goodness of the mockingbird resides elsewhere. After all, he requires Jem and Scout to visit and read to the despicable old Mrs. Dubose as she overcomes her addiction to morphine, even after the hateful insults she piled on the children's father every time the children passed her house. Mrs. Dubose dies a free woman, having become exteriorly what she had always been from the moment of her creation interiorly. Perhaps Atticus sees, as we must, that it is a sin to kill a mockingbird because a mockingbird is beautiful, simply by virtue of the fact that it is what it was created to be and does what it was created to do - a drab and arguably vexsome bird that sings a loud and intrusive song. It doesn't much matter that the mockingbird is raucous and maybe even obnoxious. It doesn't matter that the mockingbird might be a burden to me when it carries on before I've even had a chance to drink my coffee. It gets to do so, and I must bear it, because it deserves to exist even though it costs me something. It gets to demand sacrifice of me because that sacrifice permits it to be what it must be. The mockingbird tells no lies, but it does insist that it be allowed to be what it is without regard to its utility and unhindered by my preference or convenience.

We have to stop Amendment G. It is a sin to kill a mockingbird.