Read Ebook: Moonlight Schools for the Emancipation of Adult Illiterates by Stewart Cora Wilson

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Ebook has 454 lines and 38324 words, and 10 pages

To verify her statement, she slowly spelled out the words of that precious letter. Then she sat down, and under my direction, answered it--wrote her first letter--an achievement which pleased her immeasurably, and one that must have pleased the absent Jane still more.

A few days later a middle-aged man came into the office, a man stalwart, intelligent and prepossessing in appearance. While he waited for me to dispatch the business in hand, I handed him two books. He turned the leaves hurriedly, like a child handling its first books, turned them over and looked at the backs and laid them down with a sigh. Knowing the scarcity of interesting books in his locality, I proffered him the loan of them. He shook his head.

"I can't read or write," he said. Then the tears came into the eyes of that stalwart man and he added in a tone of longing, "I would give twenty years of my life if I could."

A short time afterward, I was attending an entertainment in a rural district school. A lad of twenty was the star among the performers. He sang a beautiful ballad, partly borrowed from his English ancestors but mostly original, displaying his rare gift as a composer of song.

When he had finished, I went over and sat down beside him. "Dennis," I said, "that was a beautiful ballad. It is worthy of publication. Won't you write a copy for me?"

His countenance, which had lighted up at my approach, suddenly fell, and he answered in a crest-fallen tone, "I would if I could write, but I can't. Why, I've thought up a hundred of 'em that was better'n that, but I'd fergit 'em before anybody come along to set 'em down."

These were the three incidents that led directly to the establishment of the moonlight schools. I interpreted them to be not merely the call of three individuals, but the call of three different classes; the appeal of illiterate mothers, separated from their absent children farther than sea or land or any other condition than death had power to divide them; the call of middle-aged men, shut out from the world of books, and unable to read the Bible or the newspapers or to cast their votes in secrecy and security; the call of illiterate youths and maidens who possessed rare talents, which if developed might add treasures to the world of art, science, literature and invention.

The opening of the day schools to them was first considered, but the day schools were already crowded with children, and anyway, illiterates, more than any other class, are chained to labor by day. Then came the thought of opening the schools at night, but bad roads with innumerable gullies, high hills and unbridged streams were obstacles to overcome. Besides, the county had been, at one time, a feud county and the people were not accustomed to venturing out much after night. It was decided to have the schools on moonlight nights, and let the moon light them on their way to school.

The teachers of the county were called together and the conditions laid before them. They were asked to volunteer to teach at night those whom the schools of the past had left behind. To their everlasting credit be it said that not one of those teachers expressed a doubt or offered an excuse, but each and every one of them, without a single exception, volunteered to teach at night, after she had taught all day, and to canvass her district in advance to inform the people of the purpose of these schools and to urge them all to attend.

This preliminary canvass was made on Labor Day, September 4, 1911. The teachers of Rowan County celebrated the holiday by going out into the highways and byways to gather in to school all who needed to learn. They went into every farm-house and hovel, inviting both educated and uneducated to attend.

On September 5, the brightest moonlight night, it seemed to me, that the world had ever known, the moonlight schools opened for their first session. We had estimated the number that would attend, and an average of three to each school, one hundred and fifty in the entire county was the maximum set.

We waited with anxious hearts. The teachers had volunteered, the schools had been opened, the people had been invited but would they come? They had all the excuses that any toil-worn people ever had. They had rugged roads to travel, streams without bridges to cross, high hills to climb, children to lead and babes to carry, weariness from the hard day's toil; but they were not seeking excuses, they were seeking knowledge, and so they came. They came singly or hurrying in groups, they came walking for miles, they came carrying babes in arms, they came bent with age and leaning on canes, they came twelve hundred strong!

"Just to learn to read my Bible!" was the cry of many a patriarch and many a withered dame.

"Just to write my children with my own hand, and to read their letters with my own eyes!" was the cry of the mother's heart.

"Just to escape from the shame of making my mark!" was the appeal of the middle-aged man.

"Just to have a chance with the other folk--to be something and to do something in the world!" was the expressed desire of youth and maid.

The youngest student was aged eighteen, the oldest eighty-six. It was a scene to bring tears to the eyes, but surely one to make the heart rejoice, to see those hoary-headed old people and those robust young people seated at their desks studying together, or standing in a row in class to spell, or lined up at the blackboard to solve problems or to write.

Many of them learned to write their names the first evening, and such rejoicing as there was over this event! One old man on the shady side of fifty shouted for joy when he learned to write his name. "Glory to God!" he shouted, "I'll never have to make my mark any more!"

Some were so intoxicated with joy that they wrote their names in frenzied delight on trees, fences, barns, barrel staves and every available scrap of paper; and those who possessed even meager savings, drew the money out of its hiding place and deposited it in the bank, wrote their checks and signed their names with pride. Soon letters began to go from hands that had never written, before, to loved ones in other counties and in far distant states, and usually the first letter of each student came to the County School Superintendent. In a movement full of romance and heroism, there is no incident more romantic or more delightful to record than the fact that the first three letters that ever came out of the moonlight schools came in this order: the first, from a mother who had children absent in the West; the second, from the man who "would give twenty years of his life if he could read and write"; and the third from the boy who would forget his ballads "before anybody come along to set 'em down." This answered the anxious question in our hearts as to whether the moonlight schools had met the need of those who had made the appeal.

There were no readers in print for adult illiterates, so a little weekly newspaper was published as a reading text.

Can we win? Can we win what? Can we win the prize? Yes, we can win. See us try. And see us win!

This was the first lesson. It consisted of simple words, much repetition and a content that related to the activity of the reader, all of which, in a first lesson are essential. The lesson referred to a contest between the moonlight schools, and the element of rivalry thus introduced heightened the interest and produced a style of reading that rang with the emphasis of a challenge. There was attained immediately what had been striven for in the day schools with only indifferent success--natural expression in reading.

In the later lessons there was a sentence which read, "The best people on earth live in Rowan County." Provincial though this may seem to some and flattery to others, it had the desired effect of keeping the interest at white heat, as perhaps a sentence like--"Foreign birds wear pretty feathers" could not have done. One old man read the sentence and openly expressed his approval. He leaned back in his seat and with a hearty laugh exclaimed, "That's the truth!"

Continuing the lesson, he found a little further along a sentence that read like this, "The man who does not learn to read and write is not a good citizen and would not fight for his country if it needed him."

This was published before the World War when a vast number of illiterate soldiers were called into the American Army, and is a statement disproved, of course; for illiterate soldiers are courageous and as patriotic as their understanding will permit. But the sentence provoked students to their best possible work. The old man who had exulted in being one of those "best people on earth," became very thoughtful after reading it, and then resumed his study with grim determination, for to a Kentuckian there is no accusation so humiliating as the one that he, under any circumstances will not fight. To a Kentucky mountaineer it is ignominy complete.

The little newspaper had a fourfold purpose: to enable adults to learn to read without the humiliation of reading from a child's primer with its lessons on kittens, dolls and toys; to give them a sense of dignity in being, from their very first lesson, readers of a newspaper; to stimulate their curiosity through news of their neighbor's movements and community occurrences and compel them to complete in quick succession the sentences that followed; to arouse them through news of educational and civic improvements in other districts to make like progress in their own.

News items such as "Bill Smith is building a new barn" and "John Brown has moved to Kansas" caused them quickly to master the next sentence to see what the next neighbor was doing and we found that curiosity was not confined altogether to the women.

"They are building new steps to the school-house at Slab Camp and putting up hemstitched curtains" was the item that caused Bull Fork moonlight school to build new steps, put up hemstitched curtains and paint the school-house besides.

Other elementary subjects were taught by the question and answer method--sometimes called the Socratic method. Only the minimum essentials were included in the course. For instance, the student might not be able to master American history in one short session; he could not learn the principal events of each President's term, the dates of battles, and the flounderings of the various political parties, but he could at least learn a limited number of important facts that every American citizen should know.

The ignorance of some people, even native-born Americans, about American history, shows that a few basic facts taught them would be a blessed act of enlightenment. An illiterate old man speaking at a patriotic meeting was heard to say, "Uncle Sam, our President of the United States, is a grand old man." Another during the early stages of the World War declared, "The United States ought to go over and help France. He helped us when we needed it and now we ought to help him."

The drills in history attempted nothing more ambitious in the beginning session than to clear up such wrong impressions, to open up the subject to the students, and to give them a few essential facts that would stand out or, if further advancement were possible, might be the skeleton on which a thorough course could be hung.

Drills in such facts as by whom America was discovered, by whom it was inhabited and by whom settled; the story of how our independence was won; the name and nature of our first President, may have been history in homeopathic doses, but was eagerly swallowed and was wholesome knowledge for people who knew nothing of the subject. Such cluttering-up facts as the battles we have fought, the number we have killed and mutilated, the traitors we have had, the mistakes we have made in passing and then repealing bad laws, the long struggle to overcome certain glaring evils and to secure certain needed reforms, may well be omitted from a course which requires the utmost condensation.

The drills were elective. Besides history they included civics, English, health and sanitation, geography, home economics, agriculture, horticulture and good roads. Four were to be chosen from these, the four most suitable to the district's needs.

English was one of the most popular drills, as well as one most needed. The letter "g," so often ignored by illiterates, in "ing" was reinstated to its proper dignity and use through drills on such words as "reading," "writing," "spelling," "talking," "singing," "cooking," "sewing" and others with a similar ending. Words commonly mispronounced in the community were made the subject of a drill. Such words as "seed," "crick," "kiver," "git," "hit," "hyeard," "tuk," "fust," "haint" and "skeered," were pronounced repeatedly until the right habit was formed, and the most glaring monstrosities of pronunciation were weeded out. A language conscience was created where none had existed before, and a beginning was thus made toward improving bad English--a beginning which, though but a pathway blazed, was expected to lead out into the broad highway of better, if not perfect, speech. This was long before the crusade for better speech in America was inaugurated with its "National Better Speech Week."

It was surprising how readily these grown folk mastered certain subjects. Despite the fears of some educators that violence was being done to psychology in the attempt to teach them, the grown folk learned, and learned with ease. One eminent psychologist, who early gave encouragement to the movement, wrote me saying,--"In the moonlight schools you are demonstrating what I have always believed, that reading, writing and arithmetic are comparatively easy subjects for the adult mind." Some educators, however, declared preposterous the claims we made that grown people were learning to read and write. It was contrary to the principles of psychology, they said. While they went around saying it couldn't be done, we went on doing it. We asked the doubters this question, "When a fact disputes a theory, is it not time to discard the theory?" There was no reply.

The memory subjects were the most difficult for these adult students. They had passed the "golden memory period," most of them, many years ago, and though they had memorized ballads, folk-lore and recipes to some extent, nevertheless, memory was in them a thing practically untrained.

They were taught only a few memory gems. The first one was from Whittier's poem, "Our State." It was the motto at the head of the little newspaper which they used for a reading text:

The riches of the Commonwealth Are free, strong minds and hearts of health, And dearer far than gold or grain Are cunning hand and cultured brain.

The following lines from Longfellow's "The Ladder of St. Augustine," were popular as a memory gem, comparing as it did with their own ladder of enlightenment, of which they were just mounting the first round:

The heights by great men reached and kept Were not attained by sudden flight, But they, while their companions slept, Were toiling upward in the night.

Another gem precious to them was this one taught them by a Louisville club woman, who at the age of seventy-five came and traveled over the hills at night, inspired by a desire to see and to help these men and women who had heroically begun their education late in life:

He prayeth best, who loveth best All things both great and small; For the dear God who loveth us, He made and loveth all.

Only one complete poem was to be memorized during the session. What should it be? With the world so full of poet lore to choose from, should it be Burns' "To a Mountain Daisy," Bryant's "To a Waterfowl," Lanier's "Ballad of Trees and the Master," Wordsworth's "The Daffodils," Tennyson's "Crossing the Bar" or should some other gem of poetry be bestowed on those who possessed not even one? The one who introduces the first poem to students like these stands on holy ground, and should prayerfully make the choice. As literature, the selection made might be criticised by some, but as the needed inspiration, the choice was one that met the test.

A man who was for twenty-five years president of a normal school in the mountains, visited the moonlight schools and on hearing the students recite this poem, said, "If these men and women learn nothing else besides this poem during the session it has been worth while for them to attend." It was Longfellow's "Psalm of Life" and the sentiment expressed in these two stanzas found an answering echo in their hearts:

In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle, Be a hero in the strife.

...

Let us then be up and doing, With a heart for any fate, Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait.

The people clamored for the moonlight schools to open the next year. They, and not the teachers, took the initiative and pressed the matter. The teachers responded heartily.

Prior to the opening of the second session, a moonlight school institute was held--the first institute for night school teachers in America, if not in the world. The methods of teaching adult illiterates, materials to use, ways and means of reaching the stubborn and getting them into school and other things relative to the problem of educating adults were discussed. Teachers were not compelled by law to attend this institute, as they were the institute for day-school work but, nevertheless, they did attend, paying their own expenses during the session and participating more earnestly than they had ever been known to participate in any other institute. They compared their experiences of the previous session, and some cases of supreme sacrifice and rare heroism were unconsciously revealed. Most of them had succeeded with but little effort. They had but to meet the rising tide of eager, hungry-minded adults who came rushing to the schools in almost overwhelming numbers. Others had been misunderstood, but had stemmed the buffeting waves of criticism and misunderstanding and, after being tossed about, had ridden to success. None had failed--not one, though some had been compelled to make two or three efforts before they finally succeeded. One had tried it alone and failed, then enlisted the children as recruiting officers and sent them far and wide to gather in their elders, which they did with remarkable success.

One young woman--a perfect blend of the Scotch-Irish type--who was teaching her first school when the moonlight schools were inaugurated told her story with a twinkle in her eye that seemed to belie any suggestion of hardships endured.

"I went to the school-house the first evening," she said, "and nobody came. I went the second and there was nobody there. I went the third, fourth and fifth and still no pupils. I said, 'I'm going to be like Bruce and the Spider, I'm going to try seven times,' and on the seventh night when I got to the school-house I was greeted by three pupils. Before the term closed I had enrolled sixty-five in my moonlight school and taught twenty-three illiterates to read and write." This, like all the stories, was modestly told. No mention was made of the day by day visits to the homes of illiterates, the long walks, the hours on horseback, the earnest persuasion, the chill of disappointment when waiting at the school-house alone. The Scotch determination was revealed in the words, "I said I'm going to be like Bruce and the Spider, I'm going to try seven times." The twinkle of humor in her eye was at the recollection, no doubt, of the schemes and designs by which she had outwitted those illiterates and brought them into the school.

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