You
Had To Do It Yourself
CUT TO
Abe Lincoln, by the fireplace in a log
house. "An American," Francis Grund remarked in 1837, "is almost from his cradle brought up
to reflect on his condition, and
from the time he is able to act, employed with the means of improving
it."
Lincoln, hardly a slouch as writer,
speaker, or thinker, packed fifty weeks of formal schooling into his entire life over the twelve-year period
between 1814 and 1826. Even that
little seemed a waste of time to his relatives. Unless you want to argue that
those few weeks made a decisive
difference to Abe, we need to look elsewhere for his education. Clifton Johnson thinks it happened this
way:
He acquired much of his early
education at home. In the evening he would pile sticks of dry wood into the brick fireplace.
These would blaze up brightly and shed a strong light over the room, and the boy would lie down flat on the floor
before the hearth with his book in
front of him. He used to write his arithmetic sums on a large wooden shovel
with a piece of charcoal. After
covering it all over with examples, he would take his jack-knife and whittle and scrape the surface
clean, ready for more ciphering. Paper was expensive and he could not afford a slate. Sometimes when the shovel
was not at hand he did his
figuring on the logs of the house walls and on the doorposts, and other
woodwork that afforded a surface
he could mark on with his charcoal.
In Lincoln's Illinois
and Kentucky, only reading, writing, and ciphering "to the Rule of Three" were required of teachers,
but in New England the business often attracted ambitious young men like Noah Webster, confident and
energetic, merely pausing on their
way to greater things. Adam Gurowski, mid-nineteenth-century traveler in our
land, took special notice of the
superiority of American teachers. Their European brethren were, he said, "withered
drifters" or "narrowed martinets."
Young people in America were expected to
make something of themselves, not to
prepare themselves to fit into a pre-established hierarchy. Every
foreign commentator notes the
early training in independence, the remarkable precocity of American
youth, their assumption of adult
responsibility. In his memoir, Tom Nichols, a New Hampshire schoolboy in the 1820s, recalls the
electrifying air of expectation in early American schools:
Our teachers constantly stimulated us by
the glittering prizes of wealth, honors, offices, and distinctions, which were certainly within our reach —
there were a hundred avenues to
wealth and fame opening fair before us if we only chose to learn our
lessons.
Overproduction, overcapacity, would have been an alien
concept to that America, something
redolent of British mercantilism. Our virgin soil and forests undermined
the stern doctrine of Calvinism by
paying dividends to anyone willing to work. As Calvinism waned, contrarian attitudes emerged
which represented a new American religion. First, the conviction that opportunity was available to all;
second, that failure was the result of
deficient character, not predestination or bad placement on a biological
bell curve.
Character flaws could be remedied, but
only from the inside. You had to do it yourself through courage, determination, honesty, and hard work.
Don't discount this as hot air; it
marks a critical difference between Americans and everyone else.
Teachers had a place in this
process of self-creation, but it was an ambiguous one: anyone could teach, it
was thought, just as anyone could
self-teach. Secular schools, always a peripheral institution, were viewed with ambivalence, although teachers
were granted some value — if only
gratitude for giving mother a break. In the southern and middle
colonies, teachers were often
convicts serving out their sentences, their place in the social order caught in
this advertisement of Washington's
day:
RAN AWAY. A servant
man who followed the occupation of Schoolmaster. Much given to drinking and gambling.
Washington's own
schoolmaster, "Hobby," was just such a bondsman. Traditional
lore has it that he laid the
foundation for national greatness by whipping the devil out of Washington. Whipping and humiliation
seem to have always been an eternal staple of schooling. Evidence survives from ancient Rome, Montaigne's
France, Washington's Virginia — or
my own high school in western Pennsylvania in the 1950s, where the teacher's personalized paddle hung
prominently at the entrance to many a classroom, not for decoration but for use. The football coach and, if I
recall correctly, the algebra teacher
customized their paddles, using a dry cell battery to fashion devices
similar to electrified cattle
prods.
Something in the structure of schooling
calls forth violence. While latter-day schools don't allow energetic physical discipline, certainly they
are state-of-the-art laboratories in
humiliation, as your own experience should remind you. In my first years
of teaching I was told over and
over that humiliation was my best friend, more effective than whipping. I witnessed this theory in
practice through my time as a teacher. If you were to ask me now whether physical or psychological violence does
more damage, I would reply that
slurs, aspersion, formal ranking, insult, and inference are far and away the
more deadly. Nor does law protect
the tongue-lashed.
Early schools in America were quick with
cuff or cane, but local standards demanded fairness. Despotic teachers were often quarry themselves, as
Washington Irving's "Legend
of Sleepy Hollow" warns us. Listen to the fate of schoolmaster Thomas Beveridge at the hands of the
upper-class Latin School in Philadelphia, eleven years before the Revolution:
He arrives, enters the school, and is
permitted to proceed until he is supposed to have nearly reached his chair at the upper end of the room, when
instantly the door, and every
window shutter is closed. Now shrouded in utter darkness the most
hideous yells that can be
conceived are sent forth from three score of throats; and Ovids and Virgils
and Horaces, together with the
more heavy metal of dictionaries, are hurled without remorse at the astonished preceptor, who,
groping and crawling under cover of the forms, makes the best of his way to the door. When attained, a light is
restored and a death-like silence
ensues. Every boy is
at his lesson: No one has had a hand or a voice in the recent atrocity.
In the humbler
setting of rural Indiana recreated by Eggleston for Hoosier Schoolmaster (1871), we can easily see that passage
of more than a century (and the replacement of rich kids by farmer's sons and daughters) hasn't altered
classroom dynamics:
When Ralph looked round on the faces of
the scholars — the little faces full of mischief and curiosity, the big faces full of an expression which was
not further removed than
second-cousin from contempt — when young Hartsook looked into these
faces, his heart
palpitated with stage fright. There is no audience so hard to face as
one of schoolchildren, as many a
man has found to his cost.
While Ralph was applying to a trustee of
the school committee for this job, a large ugly bulldog sniffed at his heels, causing a young girl to
"nearly giggle her head off at the
delightful prospect of seeing a new schoolteacher eaten up by the
ferocious brute." Weary,
discouraged, "shivering with fear," he is lectured:
You see, we a'n't
none of your soft sort in these diggin's. It takes a man to boss this deestrick...if you git licked, don't
come to us. Flat Crick don't pay no 'nsurance, you bet! ...it takes grit to apply for this
school. The last master had a black eye for a month.
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