The Adventures of Mary and Abe

Although I read this blog with the same hungry passion that I read such luminaries as “Hark a Vagrant” and “Hyperbole and a Half”, I have yet to really write anything for it. Granted, I did once post a humorous short film about Kant, the brilliance of which, I was sure, would radiate as a testament to my blogging genius even if I never posted anything again. But I feel the time has come to damage (possibly) my exalted status and post something that is not a video of five minutes of philosophical adumbration about Kant set to a catchy beat.

Let that suffice as an introduction.

Next year, having relinquished my post as Magistra Latinae, I will be teaching Ancient and Medieval History to middle schoolers and American History, Literature, and Philosophy to 9^th graders. I think this qualifies me as a 'History Teacher'. And I am excited. Near giddy, truth be told.

(The coolest people are history teachers.)

But I am also scared. As I've been preparing to make

the transition to history teacher, a sense of foreboding with a touch of panic has been growing with increasing poignancy. It's a panic I didn't feel with Latin. I knew that teaching the kiddos Latin was important. I knew it was an impressive responsibility, as the education of children in anything is. But I wasn't overwhelmed by it. Or frightened into a frozen, fetal-positioned ball of craven anxiety.

I'm not quite to that point yet, but the anxiety has been mounting. This is some really important stuff. Especially the American tradition. I mean, I'm teaching these newly high-schooled people about the Declaration of Independence, and the Federalist Papers, and the Constitution. Did you hear me—the CONSTITUTION!

What if I cannot convey to them just how badass the signers of the Declaration of Independence are? What if I cannot fully describe to them that the Founding Fathers had the strength and courage and perseverance of Lance Armstrong wielding Excalibur against a grizzly bear (at least)? What if I fail to demonstrate that Jay, Hamilton, and Madison (especially Madison) had the intelligence of Stephen Hawking plus Bobby Fischer? And the prudence of...well...I can't really think of any prudent people. Let's just say Madison's prudence is the acme to BP's nadir of prudence.

So these thoughts have been weighing on me lately and I've been freaking out a little (read: a lot) about them. That is, until Abraham Lincoln set me free.

I'm currently reading Harry V. Jaffa's “A New Birth of Freedom”, which was at first adding untold weight to my already Atlas-like pressure. He does a great job of giving the background to the Civil War by highlighting the completely unique and crazily difficult thing the founding of America was. Then, of course, with the Civil War the huge question is: Is this unique and difficult government sustainable? Or did our grand experiment just flop?

Lincoln believes with all his heart that the government founded in the Declaration of Independence and more perfectly established by the Constitution of 1787 is perpetual and should be perpetual. This government more than any other in all of history acknowledges, reveres, and protects the natural rights of all human beings. With an almost child-like faith, Lincoln never sways from his stance that this is the best government for America, this is the Union that must be protected for it protects the invaluable and inalienable rights of all men to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Lincoln also never veers from his belief that slavery is a contradiction to the principle of natural rights.

As impressive as his indomitable faith is Lincoln's near-pristine prudence, by which he stitches together the theological virtue of his faith with the practical virtues required of a leader of men. To this end, after receiving the Republican Party presidential nomination in 1860, Lincoln went silent.

Before earning the nomination, Lincoln gave “four major speeches in which he developed and set forth the arguments in virtue of which he became the political leader of the anti-slavery cause and president of the United States” (240). In those speeches as well as other speeches and his debates with Stephen Douglas, Lincoln had fully given his position on all the disputed matters. To repeat and belabor his position and points would counter the efficacy of those positions. “For him to repeat now what he had said before the election, as if it needed justification, would only, he wrote,

make me appear as if I repented for the crime of having been elected, and was anxious to apologize and beg forgiveness. To so represent me, would be the principal use made of any letter I might now thrust upon the public. My old record cannot be so used; and that is precisely the reason that some new declaration is so much sought” (246).

I am thoroughly impressed by this public silence not only because I think more (all?) politicians should follow suit, but also because I think it will be quite a handy tactic for me this upcoming school year. I realize that I should imitate Lincoln when I start getting antsy about making sure my students know important this stuff is. I should imitate his simple, single faith that the principles set forth in the Declaration of Independence and protected by the Constitution are good and worthy in and of themselves. I don't need to fancy them up with grizzly bears or hammer them into my students' skulls. They are true, good, and beautiful principles. To decorate them with over-wrought analogies (see above) would be to detract from their solid, unapologetic integrity. To dwell on, harp on, and over-and over-and-over-again emphasize the importance of these principles would be an imprudent presentation of the material. I would be thrusting them upon my students, thereby effecting a feeling similar to what Lincoln describes above.

Armed with this trust in the perpetual goodness of the principles of natural rights, and trying oh so hard to imitate Lincoln's ever-impressive prudence, I feel much more confident about my role as history teacher. I will try to present these principles, these documents, these men clearly and accurately, and then let my students poke, prod, examine, and judge as they will.

Not to say that I don't still occasionally get all quivery about this looming responsibility, but I feel much better now that I've got Abe in my corner. If only I could pull off that beard.