Harper Lee’s Go Set a
Watchman was a fantastic read this summer, even more so if you happen to look
at it through a political lens. As a disclaimer, though, the following contains
a few spoilers; I also take it for granted that to Kill a Mockingbird has to be read before Go Set a Watchman, if one is to enjoy the shocking experience for
which Lee sets us up.
Now, about Harper Lee’s work: both her first novel, To Kill a Mockingbird, and the sequel, Go Set a Watchman, make strong
statements about politics, one of which is explicit: racism. However, I will leave
that topic aside; not because it is irrelevant, but simply because it seems
something of a no-brainer for Lee, at least from an ethical point of view. In
both her first and second books, discrimination (even more so when based on
skin colour) really has no justifiable argument. The content of that argument remains
largely the same: no racist comes out clean, although the second book slightly
complicates that argument, as we shall see.
All the same, Scout - or Jean Louise as she is now called
throughout most of the Watchman – is
consistently ‘colour blind’. And what seems to matter for Lee, almost as much
as the question of racism, is the politics of Maycomb, Alabama. I am thus more interested
in what the book has to say about politics in general than about any particular
issue, however crucial it may be. This, I hope, will clarify some unjust critiques
of the portrayal of Atticus Finch – a hero in the first novel, only to fall
from grace in the second. By unjust, I do not mean that he ought not to fall
from his high pedestal; rather that Lee’s decision to unsettle our initial idea
of Atticus is a fantastic argument in its own right, regardless of how one may
think the whole affair ought to have been portrayed. The critique that Atticus is
too underdeveloped a character - particularly in the Watchman – simply has no ground. It has to be that way if one is to
understand the political questions bubbling under the plot. That is precisely
where I feel Lee brings out her masterful touch, revealing just how fuzzy the
whole issue of that mean, hated beast called Politics really is. And what she
has to say, although not novel by any means (is politics ever new?), is
worthwhile for any actor, student or artisan of politics to consider, be it the
activist or the critical painter. With those premises in mind, Lee reveals in
the Watchman a few troubling and
largely interconnected questions about politics: the problem of judging
intimate vs public spheres; the lack of conversation; blindness; the weakness
of belief; the problem of age. As of yet, I have no answers to offer, but it is
interesting to condense some of the questions that Lee raises.
The problem of judging
intimate vs public spheres. As a matter of clarification, there exist
noteworthy distinctions about what it is to be intimate, private and public,
all of which are crucial to the field of politics and law. I will not, however,
delve into those differences and the perennial - particularly modern - debates
to which those distinctions often give rise. What interests me is how Lee raises
the issue through the character of Atticus. In a nutshell, does it matter that
Finch is terribly bigoted? Given the widespread shock at the revelation of
Atticus as a racist, the answer is straightforward: yes, it does matter. But
why does it, and should it? After all, not all beliefs translate themselves
into pernicious political action. And if judging has political, not to mention
historical, repercussions, how is one to acknowledge someone for posterity? It
is here is where having an apparently underdeveloped character, such as
Atticus, pays off. To my mind, Lee does this purposefully, for the character of
Jean Louise is precisely his opposite in this regard. We manage not only to see
her actions in public, but also her thoughts, insecurities and prejudices. We
enter her role and thus come to see how and why she thinks and acts in the way
she does. With Atticus, both in the first and second stories, we only witness
his public persona. His thoughts are never there for us to disentangle, like
all other people with whom we interact. His intimate sphere is only his; not
ours. In the first book, we also find him to be a man of principle; an amazing
orator as he defends an innocent, black boy from a tendentious court. We come
to laud Atticus and adore his stalwart, dedicated manner: it is hard to find
fault in him, for Atticus is consistently serious, noble, wise, kind, patient
and composed, wrapped in an aura of serenity. The second book dissolves our
pristine image of him. We see him participating, albeit not discoursing, in a
Citizens’ Council, where he introduces an overtly racist speaker and allows him
to talk nonsense without interruption. This revelation astounds Scout, for
Atticus is apparently both a bigot and a racist, no matter his past nor even
his consistency of demeanour. On top of that, we later see him conversing with
Jean Louise and defending that blacks are not ready for responsible political
action. How can such a gentleman, so seemingly erudite, be so swayed by the
idea that the combined effects of melanin and light somehow affect our ability
to act? One may as well speak of the repercussions of hair pigmentation from
which to preach hair-colour superiority. In any case, and the absurd aside, do
his intimate beliefs really matter if one is to judge Atticus? Because, it
seems to me, this is one of Lee’s aims: to shock or at least unsettle through
Atticus’s revealed beliefs. So where do we go from there? Lee, of course, does
not leave it there, but rather complicates the portrayal: we are also told that
he is the least problematic of the bigots. As a matter of fact, he remains the
voice of reason. His aim is to traverse the middle-ground across an increasingly
unstable and threatened town, so as to prevent intolerant populists from
spreading fear and apparently self-righteous human rights’ defenders from wreaking
havoc on the town’s tradition. What does this tell us? A counterfactual is
pertinent at this point: imagine we were not told of his beliefs, and that we
were only to observe action at one point in time. If we had remained blind to
the politics of the time, or if Scout had showed up a few days after the
Council meeting, our image of Atticus may well have remained untainted. If he had
actually continued to defend blacks in court, would his beliefs matter if we were
to judge him through his actions? This then brings us to the more general
question of how exactly we should describe men and women of uncertain times. To
which side of history do they belong? Lee, by revealing one side of Atticus, asks
us that same question. Do we judge him by his actions, by his beliefs or both
somehow? And if beliefs matter, does the fact that he is also a loving father,
a ‘Jeffersonian’ and a gentleman play any role whatsoever in how we judge him
in posterity? Or do his racist credentials tilt the balance decidedly toward
our condemning him? I have no answers,
but Lee prompts us to become watchmen ourselves, to become aware of we how build
castles in the sky, only then to see them fall from grace.
The lack of
conversation. From Socrates to Gadamer, Habermas and Oakeshott,
conversation or dialogue (I will not bother with the distinction) has often
been portrayed as one of the more suitable, more civilized ways of approaching
questions of a political nature. It is a laudable endeavour no doubt, but is it
at all possible if political deeds are actually at stake? As she speaks with
and listens to her father, Jean Louise moves from being baffled to shocked. And
when Atticus tries to reason with her, if that were even possible, she rejects
and systematically admonishes him to the extent that, if we were not aware of
the content of the ‘conversation’, we would probably be on Atticus’ side, such
is her vitriolic attack. On top of that, Atticus is not convinced; only
exhausted. He succumbs to silence and probably remains a sort of Jeffersonian
to the end, whatever that may be, in spite of the very emotional argument Jean Louise
puts forth. In short, Lee offers us everything but a panegyric of political
deliberation. The Uncle of Jean Louise even hits her to get her attention. Only
afterwards do they begin talking.
Blindness. This is
obviously one of the more poignant points of the story, not least because of
its title. But if seeing is the opposite of being blind, then Jean Louise
barely fits the paradigm; maybe because she sees, but does not watch. Jean
Louise lived a great part of her life in a racist town, with people whom she loved,
but never once did she watch and disclose fully the nature of her surroundings.
She could have lived her whole life without watching and continued with her
harmless petit bourgeois concerns, thinking
endlessly about whether she should marry Henry Clinton or not; whether New York
is the city for her, etc. Even when the Supreme Court declares itself against
segregation, she is angry, but not so much because of the content of the
decision; rather because it was the federal government telling the South what
to do. To the issue itself, namely segregation, Jean Louise remains oblivious,
almost indifferent, and only awakens to it when her own town and father are
deeply involved in it. Until then she never watched.
The weakness of belief.
I do not know how exactly to term this issue, but the phrase seemed
appropriate. It is also obviously related to the matter of blindness, for, if
we live blindly and without watching, how do we question our beliefs? More important,
to what extent do we actually believe in what we say we believe? For all of
Jean Louise’s admonitions against her father, Jean Louise admits that she
probably would not marry a black from the south and that she doesn’t actually
think the south was all that bad. Again, apart from the issue of racism, are
beliefs ever really questioned before they are blurted out in the open?
The problem of age.
Lee is not at all circumspect in describing the fact that Atticus, despite his
outward demeanour, is an elderly man suffering from debilitating arthritis.
Jean Louise, by contrast, is blooming with youth, though slightly uncertain of
where she wants to be and what she ought to do. The question then is, would a
younger Atticus have been less conservative and more willing to accept the
changing times? As a young man he could potentially pick and push for the
‘right side of history’. The same could be asked of Jean Louise. Would she have
been as unforgiving of Maycomb if she were not young? She can, for all intents
and purposes, leave Maycomb and remain in New York. In fact, is it not just a
bit too easy for her? Having a privileged education, a comfortable home, a
loving father, what are the costs of taking the moral high-ground? History can forget
just as well as remember. And so, Atticus, who lived in that town all his life,
who once defended a black man in court, cannot abide by the fact that things
are now changing radically and that everything he once knew or took for granted
is withering away. As he grows old and Maycomb with him, he learns he is on the
wrong side of history. But it is his home after all and he is an old man. Should
that matter?
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