If I didn't, I couldn’t hold up my head in town, I couldn’t represent this county in the legislature, I couldn’t even tell you or Jem not to do something again. When Scout asks Atticus why he’s defending a black man, his response is telling:
#FINCH FOR INBOX FULL#
He defended a black man from a crime he did not commit, stood down racial slurs and threats of physical violence, carried himself with dignity in a town full of “hicks,” and did all of it in the name of being a wonderful father to his children. To me, and to so many others, Atticus was the prime example of conscientious manhood. There was no way my husband would actually let me attach the title to my child, but I hinted at it anyway.
My dreams of owning a dog named Atticus were thwarted, but it didn’t stop me from naming my first car after him, or purchasing ironic tee shirts that declared my devotion to the fictional lawyer (“Atticus Finch Runs Maycomb County”). Scout Finch’s coming-of-age tale drew me in, as it had done thousands of aspiring writers before me.
I was transported to Maycomb County, a struggling Depression-era town that was about to come face to face with problems of race, class, and justice. When I first read To Kill a Mockingbird, I was completely enthralled, not only by the story itself, but by the rhythm with which Harper Lee spun her tale. Unsurprisingly, their first choice was a long-time favorite of mine, and the centerpiece of our reading and writing studies the entire first semester: “Obviously, it’s Atticus.” The Fictional Legacy I laughed, curious, of course, about what they had come up with. “We talked about it over group text,” one sophomore explained to me a couple of weeks ago, “And we came up with some really good options for names we’d like to give him.” As soon as my ninth- and tenth-grade writing students learned the results of my ultrasound, the name suggestions went flying.
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