“Atticus,” I said one evening, “what exactly is a nigger-lover?” Atticus’s face was grave.
“Has somebody been calling you that?” “No sir, Mrs. Dubose calls you that.
She warms up every afternoon calling you that. Francis called me that last Christmas, that’s where I first heard it.”
“Is that the reason you jumped on him?” asked Atticus. “Yes sir…” “Then why are you asking me what it means?”
I tried to explain to Atticus that it wasn’t so much what Francis said that had infuriated me as the way he had said it.
“It was like he’d said snot-nose or somethin‘.” “Scout,” said Atticus,
“nigger-lover is just one of those terms that don’t mean anything—like snot-nose.
It’s hard to explain—ignorant, trashy people use it when they think somebody’s favoring Negroes over and above themselves.
It’s slipped into usage with some people like ourselves, when they want a common, ugly term to label somebody.”
“You aren’t really a nigger-lover, then, are you?” “I certainly am.
I do my best to love everybody… I’m hard put, sometimes— baby, it’s never an insult to be called what somebody thinks is a bad name.
It just shows you how poor that person is, it doesn’t hurt you. So don’t let Mrs. Dubose get you down. She has enough troubles of her own.”
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