Another Kind of Heroine


Margaret Robb Shook Cooper (1925-2012) on the steps of the house where she grew up, on University Avenue, Tuscaloosa, Alabama

I have been thnking about heroines lately, and it’s funny how easily this keeps turning into bittersweet musing about the larger-than-life heroine in my own family, my mother, who died last year.

My first and greatest heroine was an exact contemporary of Scout Finch, the adult narrator whose memories of her own childhood form the story of Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbord. Scout’s childhood took place in the mythical Maycomb, Alabama, while Margaret Robb’s – my mother’s – took place in Tuscaloosa, 150 miles north of Monroeville, the real Maycomb. I have to admit that as I was growing up in the 1960s, my mother’s stories of childhood in Tuscaloosa during the Great Depression blended mythically with the invented rememberings of those years as told by Scout Finch.

For years, I had my own grandfather Robert pleasantly confused with Gregory Peck, who played the film version of Scout’s father Atticus. Like Atticus, Mister Robert had been known for quiet authority, newspaper-reading, and being a far better shot than more obviously masculine men. Hunger and joblessness were a constant in the mining communities where he earned his living, and there was more than one story about how, in an incendiary situation, wit could often prevail over an unintelligent display of force.

My mother, in these stories, appeared as a freckled child in dirty overalls, trying to attain mastery over the dogs, horses, trains, and guns of a proper southern boy’s coming-of-age. In the re-telling, she was Scout and Jem rolled into one. Both her older brothers had died in childhood, and she was determined to be the son her father had lost.  It was only in adulthood, re-reading To Kill a Mockingbird with my own daughters, that I was able to untangle the tom-boy stories of Scout’s narration from the similar stories I had heard from my mother.

I wonder, now, about the heroic tone of so many of the stories which my mother told about those years – about the hard times and obstacles conquered. It must partly have been a way of compensating for the sheer difficulty of life then.  The anxieties of a girl-child were acute in a world where male privilege and even intimidation were always simmering just below the surface. The anxieties of a white child were acute in a different way: they involved watching and trying to make sense of racial brutality, being grateful to be on the safe side of the line – yet always unsettled by the odour of violence in the atmosphere.

At the same time, I suspect the heroic tone was also a way of trying to capture the tense emotional charge of that phase of her life. It was always clear to me that the comparatively civilized urban world in which I grew up, and in which my mother spent her adulthood, was a great come-down after the life-or-death immediacy of Depression Alabama.  My mother was fully in sympathy with the idealism of the 1960s and 1970s, and yet at the same time you could feel how disappointingly small it all seemed to her.  The stories of ‘how it used to be’ were never idealized – it wasn’t an easy life she was describing – but it was a world with a wide horizon.

Now, of course, it is I who have to find a way to tell these stories. My own daughters need to be told my mother’s stories, along with those her mother and grandmother told her and which she handed on to me. I don’t yet know how to characterise the tone that I reach for when I tell the stories of my own early years, the years my mother’s story began to cross with my own. Perhaps it is too early to tell. But it may also be a question only my own daughters can answer.



  1. N. Danielle Rudess · · Reply

    Kate, it is so nice to see a photo of your mother. I have such fond memories of her. I am remembering sitting with her in your backyard in Georgetown watching your nephew play with a table sandbox. And, Christmas with your family enjoying all of your friends and neighbors stopping by for a drink. xoxo Danielle

  2. Such a lovely memory, Danielle! You were one of her absolute favourites; she would say, ‘That girl is crazy!’, which was one of her highest compliments. Meanwhile, the sand-box nephew is now a thirty-something public defender in Athens, Georgia – the closest thing to Atticus Finch we currently have in the family! xxx

  3. Robb Prichard · · Reply

    I have always adored that picture of Robbi! She was a cauldron of energy and attitude but I never knew that she identified so closely with Scout Finch. The transition from Depression era Tuscaloosa to Washington DC was vast. Here’s to the Calpurnias of the world. xoxox Robb

  4. Robb, thank you for your sweet thoughts! Funny, I never really knew whether Scout was important to her in her own mind, or as a way of trying to explain a lost world to the next generation as we were growing up. I see that all the time with my own children – you reach for a known reference in order to explain ‘the way things were’.

    In my own mind, Robbi’s stories of life with Lyman and Ann next door were all mixed up with the fictional stories of Scout’s escapades with Dill and Jem. But her stories did have their own atmosphere – they seemed to be about escaping the heat. There were cool airy places and various aerial memories involving the porch swing and a trapeze on the verandah – do you remember that? – and also a certain amount of climbing in and out of windows. I suppose the conclusion to draw is that Robbi was more of a monkey than Scout?

  5. What a beautiful, loving place of rest for Robbi: Scout the archetypal daughter/heroine/storyteller. Of all the different sides of Robbi, I will always be proud and grateful to have experienced this aspect from Robbi too.

    And to the comparison of our grandfather with Atticus the quiet newspaper reading figure. Just as Atticus’s exploits were much more grand than a quiet newspaper reader, so were Robert Steele Shook’s actions. Likewise with Robbi, I will forever be grateful for my experience with him as well.

    And you Kate, with your great family, wonderful husband, incredible daughters, your books, and brilliant career, you share Robbi’s larger than life je ne sais quoi. Thank you tying this together for me in the way did.

    Love, Hank

  6. What lovely thoughts, Hank – so good to keep that lost world alive – they lived through such hard times but there was so much love. And the love lives on.

    xx Kate

    PS speaking of amazing people & their amazing children, here’s looking at you!

  7. Diana Balmori · · Reply

    Dear Kate, Didn’t know of this subtle connection to to Kill a Mockingbird, one of my favorite books. What a tough place to grow up in for a girl. Yes, being a tomboy seems to be a good way of surviving. Good story, well told. Thank you for giving me the chance to read it, and to think again about Robbi. I spent a sad-glad evening remembering her. Love, Diana

  8. […] Mi madre, en estos relatos, aparece como un niño pecoso en ropas sucias, tratando de alcanzar el dominio sobre perros, caballos, trenes, y armas propios de la mayoría de los niños del sur. (…) Sus dos hermanos mayores habían muerto en la infancia, y ella estaba decidida a ser el hijo de su padre había perdido. Las angustias de una niña eran agudas en un mundo donde los privilegios masculinos e incluso la intimidación siempre se cuecen lentamente debajo de la superficie. Cooper, Kate, Another Kind of Heroine […]

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