Today is George Washington’s birthday. The father of our country. And who exactly is the mother of our country? Martha Washington? Funny, I don’t remember hearing that in school. I don’t remember ever hearing about a mother of the United States. Maybe George did it all on his own, some kind of virgin birth. Some kind of "agamogenesis" -- male patriotic budding.
I became a history buff at an early age. I don’t remember how it happened. I suspect it was when I saw the hardcover children’s biography series in our school library, “Childhood of Famous Americans.” I loved to read and I loved the sheer amount of volumes in the series.
By the time I hit the third grade, I had read every biography in the series, something like 300 little bios of famous Americans. I learned about famous explorers like Zeb Pike and Kit Carson, and I learned about famous inventors like George Washington Carver and Eli Whitney. I learned new words, like “persimmon,” from reading the Tom Jefferson bio. I learned about bowie knives and muskets and breeches and haversacks. I learned about the founding of our nation, the Boston Tea Party and Crispus Attucks.
And still, I don’t remember hearing about a mother of the nation. I remember reading about Molly Pitcher; famous for bringing thirsty soldiers cool water during the Revolutionary War, and for manning the gun when her husband fell wounded.
I remember reading about Phyllis Wheatley, "Slave Poet during Colonial Times." And then, there was “Martha Washington, America’s First First Lady.” Now, there’s a title for you. First first lady. But no, "Mother of The Nation."
Mid-way through the second grade, my Teacher gave our class the most exciting assignment. We were given the task of writing our first “term paper” on a famous American in history. Teacher hinted that an American president would be an appropriate topic. Oh boy was I excited!!! I had been playing Thomas Jefferson (and making best friend Sarah play Abe Lincoln) every day after school. Every afternoon, I would go to Sarah’s house, rush up the stairs to her brother Daniel’s room, and put on his old brown three-piece suit. I would roll the pants to the knee for breeches and if I had an oxford on, I would turn the collar inside to make it seem more, well, revolutionary. I lived for Daniel’s brown suit and for Tom Jefferson. This was my life. Who cared about school or home or homework? Being Thomas Jefferson in that 3 piece suit and plowing the carpet with the vacuum cleaner – this was the stuff my childhood was made of. (Sarah might beg to differ. Her memories might revolve more around watching the Brady Bunch – but that’s for another day).
Well, I nursed and nursed and pondered and mused upon my term paper topic. Just thinking about it was half the fun. Even though I loved TJ, that was too obvious a topic. Come on. Everybody in class was going to write about Thomas Jefferson or George Washington, maybe Lincoln.
In my mind, with great care, I turned over every character in American history. I thought I might be rebellious and go outside of the Presidential box, but thought better of it. No, I would stick to the U.S Presidents, but which one? I loved William Henry Harrison’s name, but he had such a short presidency - what was there to talk about except the fact that he got a cold. Well, that and Tippecanoe and Tyler too. But, that wasn’t enough. I thought of Grover Cleveland. He was a strong contender, the only man to be president twice. But, I don’t know. I wasn’t really enamored with him as a person. I considered John Quincy Adams, but he looked so mean in the photo in our
American Heritage Encyclopedia series at home. He seemed to resent being President, or being the son of John, or something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
And that’s when I got it! I knew! I was going to do my term paper on Calvin Coolidge. What a cool idea! No one else was going to do a paper on “Silent Cal.” There was a hard nut to crack, and I was going to crack it.
Teacher had arranged for us to announce our term paper topic out loud in class. She would call each student by name, and when your name was called, you would stand up and state your topic.
I was so excited the night before this event I could hardly sleep! School projects did not usually elicit this kind of response from me, but this was different. I was going to show my Teacher how much I knew about history. And, I was going to broaden the minds of my classmates.
Term paper topic day came. And, as expected, every kid stood up and said “George Washington, Father of our Country.” A few kids said “Thomas Jefferson, Author of the Declaration of Independence.” Maybe one kid said "Abe Lincoln, Hero Who Freed the Slaves" or something like that.
And then, it was my turn. I remember it like today. I took my time getting out of my seat. Wiped my sweaty palms on my corduroys. Took a deep breath and said, “I am going to do my paper on Calvin Coolidge.” I was so sure that Teacher would smile at me, with great respect, for my unusual and demanding choice.
But, Teacher’s ready-made smile turned into a frown. Her face lost color. The kids around me noticed and there were a few snickers. Then, Teacher muffled a laugh in her throat and said, “You can’t do your paper on Calvin Coolidge. How about Thomas Jefferson?” And I was confused. The room began to spin a bit. What was happening? This was not the way it was supposed to go. Teacher liked me and thought I had potential. She knew that I had read all of those biographies. Why would I waste my time on a paper about Thomas Jefferson? I knew TJ like the back of my hand. I practically was Tom Jefferson.
I stuttered, and tried to protest, but Teacher’s ready-made smile came back on. “Yes, you do your paper on Thomas Jefferson,” she said. “He’s a wonderful person to study.” And, I didn’t know what to say. I collapsed into my chair and felt the red sting of humiliation on my face. A few of the boys made faces at me. “Calvin Coooooolidge. That’s stupid. Who’s that?” blah blah blah . . . . . . .
And that, right there, is the day any direct interest in school vanished from my system. I did well, but I wasn’t there ever again. Yep, that’s right. Calvin Coolidge
probably killed any aspiration for a PhD. Silent Cal turned out to be my Silent Scholastic Killer.
And so, when I think of Presidents Day, or President’s Day, or Washington’s Birthday – I think of Calvin Coolidge and the end of my interest in school term papers, in school in general.
Now, who is the mother of this country again?
