Blues Ain't No Mockingbird

“Blues Ain’t No Mockin Bird” exemplifies Bambara’s pursuit in portraying Black lives authentically. Because the story is told by a child in her own voice—her own rhythms, cadence, idioms, and vernacular—it is told the way it would be heard. The childlike perspective also lends the narrative a guilelessness, a truthfulness that only a young voice could provide. Her viewpoint is trustworthy, as she simply says what she sees and relates it to other things she’s picked up along the way.

The young narrator is not afraid or even aware, at first, of the white men filming the property; her immediate concern is getting a turn on the tire swing. It’s Granny who draws her attention to the men, and it’s Granny on whom the child is focused—the narrator is more worried about Granny lashing out than about anything the white men may do. This indicates that Granny has been successful at removing her family from the scrutiny of white people and providing a life where the child may simply be a child, but this sort of freedom has clearly come at a price. Granny is fed up with being gazed upon, stared at, and judged by white people who feel entitled to her polite attention, and to her gratitude to them for theirs. The county men want to “take” and “have” footage of Granny and her property, words that are telling, even as the men themselves are unaware of how they might be interpreted. The men are used to taking whatever (and whenever) they want from Black people, and Granny is not going to allow that to happen on her land.

Granny’s overt disdain for the men contrasts with their insistent politeness, which masks a covert racism that Granny is all too aware of. This is the story’s central conflict: a subtle, no less harmful racism that takes many forms but shows itself in the men’s sense of entitlement as they intrude on the Black family. The story, then, is about watching, about who has the right to look, and about the way society was changing after the civil rights movement of the 1960s. The white men believe that if they are polite, if they speak patronizingly to “aunty” Granny, that she will know she should be grateful for their civility and will agree to whatever they propose. But Granny isn’t that “aunty” they wish her to be. She is a woman who makes her own rules for her own property. In fact, within mere minutes of this interaction, the men make numerous assumptions that are as demeaning as they are incorrect. The epithet “aunty” is an artifact of American slavery, during which white Southerners would commonly address older enslaved women in this manner. Moreover, unlike the more respectful “ma’am,” the title “aunty” both assumes an undue level of intimacy and surreptitiously implies the title-bearer’s caretaking responsibility—and these men indeed expect Granny to be a caretaker by tending to their needs. When they see her garden, they also praise her for growing her own food, for ostensibly not needing food stamps, for being a “good poor person” and not a “bad poor person.” With unwitting insensitivity, the men suggest that state-issued benefits are necessary only for those who lack prudence and diligence, yet they’ve come to Granny’s property under the assumption that she would be an ideal interviewee for the food stamp campaign—an assumption likely based on their knowledge that a Black family lived there. Granny unequivocally rejects their solicitation, but they ignore her and continue filming, exposing their precursory deference as a sham. When Granny tells the children about the man on the bridge, and the other man who showed up and began taking pictures, she shares the story to illustrate what she knows about these county men: They don’t see her as a human being, only a means to an end that has nothing to do with her.

The young narrator is also boldly looking, ever watchful, but it’s a different sort of looking than what the county men are doing. While the men’s watchfulness is essentially acquisitive and even exploitative, the narrator’s observation is not about taking anything—it is about finding meaning and understanding. She watches her Granny, her Granddaddy Cain, and her cousin Cathy, hunting for clues for what all of this really means. They are the authorities in her life. The narrator knows her Granny is unpredictable, but the young girl also knows what it is that provokes her. Granny dislikes exactly this kind of overstepping: these white men with their nice words nonetheless stomping all over the property without her permission. Granny has made the family move before, yet it is unclear precisely how or why those moves have occurred. The narrator recalls “Granddaddy Cain pullin her off the people, sayin, ‘Now, now, Cora’” (132), suggesting that in addition to Granny’s initial intention to vacate, explosive behavior may have played a role in necessitating the move. Whatever the case, this is a source of tension for Granddaddy Cain and his granddaughter, who aim to prevent it from happening again. Granny’s aim, however, is to show those county men—and all other prying white people—that they do not have her permission to interfere. Granny, at times, is the ultimate antihero of the story: impulsive, wise, fed up, strong. Her tempestuousness is an aggrieved desire for justice.

When Granddaddy Cain shows up, he appears in almost mythical glory. He is heard before he is seen, and when he comes into view, the narrator notices a “bloody thing” on his shoulder. He pays no attention to the county men as he passes, and seems only to want Granny to see that he’s killed the chicken hawk at last, an indication that he does the hard, bloody work if his wife asks him to. If there are any doubts about his quiet, methodical strength, he nails the live chicken hawk to the shed door, and when its mate comes to claim her, he kills it with a perfect aim of his hammer. The thrashing and screaming female chicken hawk, nailed to the door, is reminiscent of Granny when she’s been pushed to the point of action. The chicken hawk cannot fly away from her reality, but she’s sure going to try. Similarly, the male chicken hawk comes fiercely toward its mate’s captors, determined to free the female chicken hawk the way Granddaddy Cain has moved the family each time Granny has felt trapped, the way he will soon deal with the county men. That the male chicken hawk is killed by Granddaddy Cain’s hammer indicates that Granddaddy Cain has silenced parts of himself to keep the peace. He is repeatedly referred to as “quiet” or “silent.” And, when Granddaddy Cain turns to the white men, he does not insult or holler or threaten. He bids the county men a good day, and when they don’t listen, he pries apart the camera: “This is our own place” (136), he says, letting the county men know that he is unimpressed with their politeness, their official roles, and their whiteness.

Cathy says one day she’ll tell a story “[a]bout the proper use of the hammer” (136). The children have learned something: A weapon—or a camera—is only as good as its aim.