And it sets the stage for the preacher to usher the children up to the balcony during Tom Robinson's trial. That's why I don't find the book's treatment of race simplistic or patronizing -- the color line cuts both ways, and its absurdity is best seen through the eyes of an innocent child who hasn't lived long enough to get used to it and take it for granted.
My great-grandmother had a hired man named Chan. He did odd jobs, a little gardening. He was about her age; they might have known each other as children. He had a tin cup he would set on the porch stoop, and when he came back it was filled with water or coffee, depending on the time of day and the weather. He never stepped foot in the house except to fix something, and she never visited his; everyone knew their place.
When Chan died, Ladybird (my great-grandmother) knew she could not attend the funeral. It just wasn't done. But she had a quiet word with the pastor of the local AME church, and arranged it so after the casket was placed in the church, but before the formal viewing, she could go in and pay her respects alone. Which she did.
That's the thing about To Kill a Mockingbird. It resonates. I know people who love movies like "Moonstruck" or "A Bronx Tale," and I'll admit, they're well done. But they don't speak to me. "Fried Green Tomatoes" and "Steel Magnolias," on the other hand, get to me -- I know these people. They raised me.
Mockingbird is a compelling story expertly told, so much so that it speaks to everyone -- including, apparently, British librarians. It has a universal appeal. But to Southerners, there's something deeper. It's kind of like those Tibetan monks who can chant so that four voices can create two dozen distinct pitches. It's the resonance -- something in it vibrates an internal tuning fork you weren't even conscious of having.
Your story about your great-grandmother struck a cord with me. I grew up in Miami, Fla. which in the late 40’s and early 50’s was not exactly the deep south but was populated by a lot of people who had moved from places in the deep south, if you know what I mean. So, there was racism, even in the “sun and fun capital” just the same. I still remember the “colored only” signs on the water coolers and the “colored only” over the back seat of the bus. Anyway, my grandmother had a yard man, Sam(never knew his last name), and after a few weeks of not seeing him I asked my grandma where Sam was. She said he must have moved or died because he was that steady. In those days we did not even get close enought with the “colored” help to know ANYTHING about them. Sad. Really sad.
Dang! That brought tears to this Mississippi gal's eyes!