The following is a fictional story about what it might have been like for a male student who wanted to become a teacher in the late 1800s.
I want to be a teacher. I remember sitting in class, just being so captivated about what the teacher had to say. We weren’t a rich family, but we managed. My sisters and I would walk to school, hand in hand, through my Pa’s fields and over the creek that ran between where we kept the livestock and where we grew the harvest every summer. Carol and Ethel were never as excited to go to school as I was, they were always stopping to chase butterflies or toads or mice. I had to be the mean older brother that dragged them away from their play. They didn’t know it yet, but school was the most important thing in their lives at the moment. It was our ticket to a better, cushier, comfier life. Once we were educated and got good jobs, we could finally get our Ma and Pa to stop working so hard. We could take care of them like they did for us. I wanted to go to a good school, a good high school or college. I didn’t want to wind up like one of those kids sitting in the back of the schoolhouse at 19 years, I wanted something better. When I turned 17 I took the entrance exams for Harvard, it was far away from home, but I wanted it. The exam was on literature, and Greek, and Latin. I remember staying after school almost every day, studying with my teacher. She told me to give up. She said that Harvard was only for rich students but I wouldn’t listen. My Pa got real mad. He wanted me to stay home and help him in the fields. I got a couple spankings, but I knew that he wanted me to succeed; it’d just be hard. He wanted me to make it; he just didn’t think I could. When the time finally came, I wrote the exam. I was shaking. It was scary, my Ma tried to talk me out of going that day. I went anyways. The results didn’t come in until about a week later. I was too scared to go to school until then, or even help Pa out in the field. I stayed in bed, helped Ma take care of Ethel and Carol. I vomited a few times thinking about failing. In the end, I passed. My Ma cried, I think my Pa did too- just where we couldn’t see him. I went on to study at Harvard. I learned an awful lot about Latin, and Greek. I didn’t have much time to visit my family, but we wrote to each other whenever we could. My Pa couldn’t read, so Ma had to read it to the family. Eventually I graduated and became a professor. I wanted to teach, I loved to learn, so I wanted to help others do the same. I went on to teach at several smaller schools, and eventually became a professor at Harvard. My parents were proud, and never failed to express it. I invited them to come live with me, I made a good amount of money at my job, and could afford to take care of them both. They agreed, and brought Carol and Ethel with them. Shortly after the move, Ethel became a seamstress and got married and moved out. Carol never married, but I knew that she was happy. She got a job at the General Store selling fabrics to all the ladies in town. It makes me sad to think of all the kids back home who never made it far in school. I guess they must have taken it for granted. I resolved to never let any kid of mine do that. As I grew older, my Pa and Ma never stopped thanking me. Ma kept the house clean and Pa took care of my gardens. I could never have asked for a better life. I knew to thank myself as it was my work that got me here, even when not another soul believed in me. I guess that’s why I’m writing all this down. I don’t want anyone out there to be wallowing in self-pity, thinking that they have bad luck. Your future is in your hands, you just have to work for it.
Suzanne is a student at Trinity College School and guest writer for the Museum.