HUCK FINN, THE “N” WORD, AND ME

Wow.  During the past three weeks or so, I’ve been following an extremely passionate and thoughtful debate on the NCTE (National Council of Teachers of English) Discussion Forum.  English teachers and their students are currently discussing Mark Twain’s famous classic, Huckleberry Finn, a book that's included on required reading lists for schools all over tarnation. And it seems that every single teacher has a different way of dealing (or not dealing) with the ever-present “N” word in Huck’s tale. 

What do the teachers have to say?  You name it:

~So should the book be banned? 
~How dare anyone even think the book should be banned!! 
~Should the “N”word be repeated aloud in class? 
~Let’s put a less offensive word in its place!
~No way….that’s verboten. 
~How do I keep from offending my black students?
~We’re a bunch of white men, so maybe we’re unfit to discuss such things.  
~Can the word make for a teachable moment?
~Maybe there’s another equally good book that could replace Huckleberry Finn and still get Mark Twain’s points across without using politically incorrect language.
~Why would you want to do that?  
~Mark Twain just uses the "N" word to satirize the racists' immoral behavior. 
~Should we simply have kids read certain “safe” passages and ignore the rest?
~Why can’t they take a gander at the whole tamale?
~Can we as adult teachers even use the word “nigger” with each other in this forum?
~Yes, of course! 
~NO, most certainly not!

I just looked at Mark Twain’s book as I was typing this blog, and the word is all over the place; on the first page of Chapter XLII alone, it appears 14 times.  But what does all this have to do with yours truly?

Right now, a lot. I’m writing a nonfiction picture book about the Civil War for kids ages 10 and up, and to me, many of the most riveting, memorable, candid, and revealing quotes I have ever seen anywhere come from slave narratives compiled verbatim after these people were freed. 

  

If anyone wants to understand what life was really like for black Americans before and during the Civil War, they should see these unfiltered stories as experienced by the genuine human beings themselves. I’ve read slave narratives by the hundreds by now, and for that reason, I’m including a few of the strongest paragraphs in my (not yet finished) manuscript.  Or at least, that’s my full intent.  This is nonfiction, so the plan is to uncover the truth, not to Bowdlerize history.

  

The problem is that slave narratives are liberally peppered with the ubiquitous “N” word. It was an integral part of the language back then and appears on almost every page.  Of course I’m no Mark Twain—tis to laugh— but I’m already getting the same kind of push-back Huck Finn is getting for including the word (in its proper context).  You can find the warnings I’ve gotten in the list above, and I’m getting five more: 

 

1)  Your book will be banned if you use that word because you ain’t Mark Twain.
2)  Yup, Mark Twain was white like you, but he’s a famous dead guy and can get away with things you can't.
3) Have fun trying to get the word nigger past your publisher.
4) Be practical. If you include the word you won’t sell a single copy. 
5)  Look out for the hate mail. 

People, get in line.  I’ve gotten push-back for writing non-Bowdlerized history plenty of times already, so why stop now?  (Even so, I’d like to know what you think…..)

The Past Is Always Present

Our house has a fairly large wrap-around porch and Alison and I love to use it whenever we can. We watched New Year's Eve fireworks from it this year and have used it in the past to view parades and bicycle and foot races. But just sitting in a wicker chair as the night wears along is a peaceful joy. Traffic dies down at 11 PM and the world becomes very still and deep. When leaves are present, when they surround and embrace the porch, very little light -- whether from street or porch lights or the moon -- disrupts the dark shadows. It becomes a refuge, a haven to escape the day-to-day pressures and responsibilities, a place where I often find myself thinking of the past.*
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Sitting there I sometimes wonder if the original owners of our house sat out at night as we do? The house was built in 1905 and our town of Maplewood was just beginning to grow and change, with new streets being carved through old apple orchards, sturdy wood frame houses slowly rising up. What did those first owners hear at night? The lonely clip-clop of horse's hooves? The huff and chug of the steam train from Newark? And when did the first automobile make its way past the house? *
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And what about other owners through the years? What was it like to sit in the absolute quiet of a dark night when the world wars were raging? Did someone bring a radio out to listen to the latest reports from Europe or the Pacific? Did anyone sit on the porch during a heavy snow fall (as I often do) to be surrounded by cold and white and gusting winds? Or stay out when a summer thunderstorm came rumbling through? Yes, I have been known to experience all sorts of storms out there.*
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And, of course, there are those strange, sometimes unsettling moments, especially after midnight. Twenty years ago we often heard the distant voice of a young girl calling plaintively in the night: "Mommy... Mommy... Mommy..." We nicknamed her the Ghost Child and dispite going out to make sure everything was okay and despite asking neighbors, it was years before we found out the truth. It was indeed a young girl and she was searching for a loved one -- her cat, which escaped regularly and was named Monty!*
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That was a disappointing end to the story. We had hoped for something a little more, shall we say, picturesque. But the Ghost Child has been replaced these days by the Night Rider. Late at night, usually after midnight, we can hear the thrum of a skateboarder making his or her way up Maplewood Avenue toward our house. The sound gets louder and louder until they get to the corner that borders our house where the rider turns and pushes hard to sail up the side street. We have never actually seen the rider, it's that dark. Just a quick glimpse of moving shadow and then the sound of the wheels fades away into the night. Who is the Night Rider? Where did they come from and where are they going? Will they be safe?*
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These are decidedly small bits of history. Incidents really that usually aren't recorded because they're, well, so every day and common. But I believe that much interesting history begins with the ordinary. Take what happened to Corporal Barton Mitchell and his friend on September 13, 1862. When the 27th Indiana Infantry halted their march just outside of Frederick, Maryland, Mitchell and his pal went over to rest in the shade and happened to spot a rolled-up piece of paper in the tall grass. It turned out to be Special Order No. 191 (where Robert E. Lee divided up his army). If these two soldiers hadn't found the paper and hadn't realized it was important, there would have been no Battle of Antietam, Lee would have probably been able to reunite his forces, and that would have meant a far different battle between Lee and McClellan than Antietam (and who knows when or even if the Emancipation Proclamation would have been issued!).*
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Finding those orders was pure dumb luck, but it resulted in an historic battle that changed the course of the war and the world. A tiny bit of history, a mere moment really, that had profound effects. Which is why I love to sit at night on our porch, listening and waiting and imagining. You never know where porch sitting might all lead.*