The River of Life

            I must be honest. As I held the giant Adventures of Huckleberry Finn in my hand, I felt a little overwhelmed. Not only did I have multiple tests rapidly approaching, but now had this seemingly daunting task of reading this novel, which quite frankly didn’t jump out at me as an interesting read. As I lay comfortably in bed, I procrastinated by working on my Tiny Tower game and quickly flipped through Facebook. I looked at the clock, and had managed to waste fifteen minutes. I placed my phone out of reach behind my head and dove into Huckleberry. No use in trying to prevent this any longer.

            As I read the first chapter, I grew a bit frustrated. I love a southern drawl as much as the next guy, but I don’t enjoy reading it. I never did like books with purposefully misspelled words. My mind began to wander. I began to question if Huck was somehow connected to Tom Sawyer. It only took a few paragraphs for that connection to be confirmed. I really don’t understand how I knew. The only knowledge I have of Tom Sawyer is Tom Sawyer’s island at Disneyland. I enjoyed exploring the caves, forts, and twisted pathways when I was younger. I guess the context of Tom Sawyer wasn’t necessary to enjoy the attraction. The island is still up and running at Disneyland, but has recently been renamed Pirate Island after the immense success of the Pirate’s of the Caribbean movies. I snapped back to reality, I needed to continue reading.

With each page, the southern drawl became easier and easier to read through. One thing is for sure- I was submerged in a world of southern culture. Huck, Jim, and Tom all spoke and acted according to my expectation for what I’d find in Texas. The more I think about it, the happier I am that Texas doesn’t match my stereotypes, still, there is a part of me that is disappointed. I was really looking forward to picking up a cool accent. The more I read of Huck’s adventures, the more I began to enjoy the story. I don’t know how accurate a reflection on living in the south Huck is, but I can say the world he grew up in was far different than my own. I enjoyed stopping in my reading to spend sometime trying to comprehend how different the world of Huck is from mine. It’s amazing how different regions of one countries appear like separate countries from their drastic differences.

First off, I can’t imagine growing up with slavery. All I know of slavery is what I read in textbooks. I’d never think to call a black person by the “n word” and expect them to be okay with it. It’s still a little shocking to me every time Huck refers to Jim with it. I know that slavery is thankfully gone in the U.S., but I wonder if there are remnants of it manifested through racism still present in the south more than other places. Last semester I had an interesting experience with an African American bus driver. While riding the bus, the driver was speaking to another African American passenger about a white passenger he drove the day before. Apparently the passenger called the driver a nigger and made several racist comments about how slavery should still be in action and that he couldn’t believe he had to ride the bus with other black people. I felt awkward being the only white person on the bus that day; I was afraid they would associate the man’s actions with me. Still, I was more taken aback that that kind of thing still occurred. I guess I grew up even more sheltered than I originally believed. I wonder if there really is a difference in upbringing in the south, if there is some kind of racial tension still present among society here? Aside from that, Huck’s actions made me question my own. Perhaps I would act like Huck if I grew up in southern culture. Maybe what seems so wrong to me wouldn’t if that’s all I knew.

The second instance that caught me off guard was Buck’s explanation of his family feud. The fact that both families can’t remember why the feud was started, yet decide to continue to murder each other is crazy. I laughed at the concept of waking up with the mindset, I’m going to go out and kill someone in that family because I know our families got into a dispute that I can’t remember anything about. It seems highly improbable to me, yet I know things like this still occur today. But once again, I realized that perhaps my inability to relate is because of my upbringing. I suppose that if I grew up with Buck, the family feud would seem rational to me, and I’d be a part of it without question.

What amazes me is that stories of my childhood would probably seem strange or different to someone who grew up in the south, or maybe even the east coast. Perhaps coming-of-age in the south looks different than the west coast. Until reading Huck Finn, I had never considered how influential your surroundings are on your personal coming-of-age story. Rafting down a river with a runaway slave seems so foreign to me only because it’s an impossibility in Mission Viejo, California. Still, it doesn’t make the experience less influential. By floating down the river, Huck is exposed to different perspectives and different people that ultimately force him to begin making decisions for himself. Decisions as simple as what am I going to eat today, to larger ones concerning morality in regards to lying about one’s identity and stealing. As much as Huck Finn may seem to be the farthest thing away from me, I can’t help but admire him. While I don’t always agree with his judgments, I applaud the maturity it takes to make those decisions. There’s no way I’d be capable of fending for myself the way Huck did when I was 14.

As I continue my journey in Huck Finn, I must admit I am enjoying it more and more. It’s hard not to have fun imagining the crazy situations Huck lands on, and the goofy characters such as the “Duke” and “Dauphin” he encounters on the way. Even more, I enjoy the way Mark Twain exposes me to a culture completely different than I know. Even though our experiences are unalike, Huck and I are both at a place where we must make decisions for ourselves in situations we have never faced. Heck, we are all floating down a river... the river of life that is.