The Day They Came to Arrest the Book (16 page)

Turney paused and looked down at a slip of paper in his hand. “In this book, those words—particularly ‘nigger’—are not intended by the author, Mr. Clemens, also known as Mark Twain, to insult or humiliate
me
or any other black person. They are clearly intended to rebuke and bring scorn to those ignorant, so-called grown-up white people in the book who use those words.”

“Huckleberry Finn himself uses ‘nigger’ all the time, young man!” Carl McLean shouted from the first row.

“Yes,” Steve Turney said calmly. “Yes, he does. And that is what makes this book so interesting. Huckleberry Finn uses that word because the way he grew up, and where he grew up, it was the natural thing to do. A lot of evil comes natural, sir. That’s why it’s so hard to overcome evil in oneself. But Huckleberry Finn, he doesn’t
feel
or mean the word ‘nigger’ the way the white grown-ups do. He doesn’t
see
black people as niggers, even though he does use the word. He sees Jim as a
man
, a man who should be free, and he tries hard to help keep him free.

“I think”—Steve Turney looked around the hall—“this book has a lot to teach
everybody
, even though it was written so many years ago. What it teaches is that a boy can be better, a whole lot better, than what he’s been taught to be. A lot of young people still need to be shown that. In this town too. At our school too.

“With all respect to everybody on the other side”—Turney was now speaking quite slowly—“I think it is dumb to punish this book in any way. If I were principal of my school, I would make sure that every single student read this book before leaving my school. That is all I have to say. Except that I feel I am very fortunate because nobody can protect me from this book anymore. Even if they burn this book, I have read it. And I will never forget this book.”

Carl McLean rose to say that Steve Turney was a
sad, a poignant, example of a black child who had already been brainwashed by this book—so brainwashed that he did not even
know
when he was being insulted and stereotyped.

The debate went on and on, and Reuben Forster kept looking at his watch, trying to decide when to call for a vote. Noticing a whispered conference in the back of the room between Carl McLean and Matthew Griswold, Forster braced himself. The wind ain’t going their way, he said to himself, so they’re going to play for time so they can turn the wind around.

“Mr. Chairman! Mr. Chairman!” McLean was waving vigorously. “The hour is getting late, and I move that in view of the wise precedent set by the review committee at the last meeting on this issue—when they asked not to be hurried into a decision—that we provide the same courtesy to you and the rest of the school board this time. There is no urgent need for you to reach a decision tonight. Reflect for a day or a week on what you have heard this evening. And”—McLean’s voice grew sharper—“reflect on the impact of your decision on your future in public office.”

Reuben Forster felt for the cold pipe in his pocket. “Mr. McLean,” the chairman of the school board said slowly, “I do believe we have
all
sufficiently reflected on this matter. However, I will ask the members of the board if they would like to take advantage of your considerate suggestion.”

Forster looked up and down the table. No member of the board indicated a desire to reflect any longer.

“Well, then,” the chairman said, “it’s time to vote.”

There was one vote to affirm the original judgment of the review committee that
Huckleberry Finn
be removed from all required classroom reading lists; that only certain students, with parental permission be given the book on optional reading lists; and that, in the school library, the book be kept on a restricted shelf to be read by a student only with the written permission of a teacher and a parent.

The other four members of the school board voted to free Huck Finn from any and all restrictions in the classrooms and the library of George Mason High School.

On the way out of the hall, Deirdre Fitzgerald was crying with relief. Smiling through her tears, she said to Nora Baines, “I just hope that after all this, Huck doesn’t decide to run away and light out for the Indian territory. God, after what he’s been put through, I wouldn’t be surprised if he did just that.”

   The next morning, Mr. Moore was in early. If he was disappointed in the school board’s decision, he showed no sign of it. Indeed, his secretary told Maggie Crowley later in the day that the principal was unusually cheerful.

“I can’t figure it,” Rena said.
“He
didn’t win any victory. All along, he tried to make it look as if he wasn’t on either side—just smack in the middle. And I happen to know”—Rena lowered her voice—“that the board wants to look into some of those charges that
Karen Salters made about his little censorship deals before all of this. So you tell me, why is Mighty Mike going around acting like some rich relative died?”

“Beats me,” Maggie Crowley said. “I bet you something tricky’s going on in his teeny mind.”

In his office, Mr. Moore was walking slowly, back and forth, before the great wall of photographs. He stopped in front of John Wayne’s picture and gave it a friendly rap with his knuckle.

“Duke,” the principal said softly, very softly, “you know and I know that most of the folks on the winning side don’t take this censorship stuff all that seriously. Sure, a few of them do, but the rest, they got carried away. Once all those TV cameras started coming around, they didn’t want to look like yokels. But there’ll be so many things on their minds between now and the school board elections next year that this stuff about the books will seem like ancient history.

“So”—Moore smiled—“if McLean, Griswold, and the people with them do a smart, quiet job of organizing—without blowing up this whole issue again but fixing on some other grievances—they could elect a majority of the board. Because the other side is going to think they don’t
have
to organize, they’ve already won. And so a lot of them aren’t even going to bother to vote.

“Well, now”—the principal broke briefly into what looked like a jig—“that new school board would be very happy with a principal who knows how to deal with bad books the right way. A principal to whom
any member of the new majority of the board could come with a complaint about a book and know it’d be taken care of fast and sure. Yes, sir, and that kind of school board might want to make that kind of principal
superintendent
of schools.”

Mr. Moore started to hum, and someone with an unusually acute musical ear might have been able to detect in the drone a badly bent trace of “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning.”

   “Now that it’s all over,” Barney said, “are we friends?”

Kate smiled. “It’s not all over. Nothing’s ever all over. That’s what keeps me going.”

“Some day we’re all going to be all over,” Luke said. “Do you at least concede that?”

“Some of us,” Kate said, “will not be all over ever, because some of us will have left a mark, a contribution, on which new generations can build. And others of us”—Kate gave Luke a pitying smile—“will simply disappear, as if they had never been here.”

“That mark
you’re
going to leave”—Luke grinned back—“is that going to be a big ‘T’ and a big ‘C’ for Thought Control?”

“It’s fascinating”—Kate turned to Barney—“to watch so primitive a mind try so hard to function. It’s like
The Little Engine That Could
. Except
she
finally made it.”

“She?”
Luke slapped his thigh.

“Why is it,” Kate said, “that a piece of machinery can be ‘he’ in the first place but you yelp like a hound-dog if it’s referred to as ‘she’?”

“Kate’s got a point.” Barney smiled.

“Maybe,” Luke said. “But will Kate admit we scored some points, a hell of a lot of points, in the battle of Huck Finn?”

“You won, didn’t you?” She looked at Luke.

“That’s not what I mean,” Luke said. “Did any of our points finally get through to
you?”

“Steve Turney got through to me,” Kate said as Barney listened intently. “When he told the school board he could tell when ‘nigger’ was meant for him. And that it
wasn’t
meant for him in
Huckleberry Finn
. That bothered me. I thought I’d been fighting for Steve, for everybody black in the school. And here was this black person telling me to butt out of his business. And he wasn’t playing to the white folks, either. Steve doesn’t let anybody mess with him, you know that.”

“So why didn’t you say something after you heard Steve?” Barney asked.

“I had to think about it,” Kate said. “I’m still not saying I’ve changed my mind entirely about that damn book. I’m just saying I’m a little less sure than I was. Anyway,” she went on cheerfully, “it’s all part of the learning process. So take heart, little engine.” Kate patted Luke on the shoulder. “Your mind will grow too—as much as it can.”

“So you’re going to cool it a little from now on?” Luke said to her. “You’re not just going to jump right
into something—and wait until it’s all over before you start thinking?”

“I’m going to jump
and
think, my friend, all at the same time.” She poked Luke in the stomach. “That’s the way I am.”

“If you don’t think before you jump,” Barney said, “you could drown.”

“Wherever have I heard that before?” Kate shook her head. “Actually, my grandfather had a twist to that. He once told me, ‘When someone plunges in the sea and drowns, you can’t blame the sea. You must learn to swim.’ That’s what I’m doing all the time. Swimming and thinking, thinking and swimming right along. The Little Activist That Could. Next time, I’ll beat the socks off you guys.”

“My, my, my,” Mr. Moore’s voice boomed behind them. “What do we have here? Sweet reconciliation—or is it only a truce?”

“It sure ain’t surrender,” Kate said brightly.

“Well, it’s all behind us now.” Mr. Moore smiled all around. “I’m sure there are no hard feelings.”

“Against whom?” Barney said innocently.