Atticus did not drive a dump truck for the county, he was not the sheriff,
he did not farm, work in a garage, or do anything that could possibly arouse the admiration of anyone.
Besides that, he wore glasses. He was nearly blind in his left eye, and said left eyes were the tribal curse of the Finches.
Whenever he wanted to see something well, he turned his head and looked from his right eye.
He did not do the things our schoolmates’ fathers did: he never went hunting, he did not play poker or fish or drink or smoke.
He sat in the living room and read. With these attributes, however, he would not remain as inconspicuous as we wished him to:
that year, the school buzzed with talk about him defending Tom Robinson, none of which was complimentary.
After my bout with Cecil Jacobs when I committed myself to a policy of cowardice,
word got around that Scout Finch wouldn’t fight any more, her daddy wouldn’t let her.
This was not entirely correct: I wouldn’t fight publicly for Atticus, but the family was private ground.
I would fight anyone from a third cousin upwards tooth and nail. Francis Hancock, for example, knew that.
When he gave us our air rifles Atticus wouldn’t teach us to shoot.
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