“I am writing to ask if you have any advice on teaching children about these values. We are just a small school, far from any major places, but I believe these lessons matter, especially for children growing up in places that people forget.”
And in the end, 12 messages: one from each student, written in childish handwriting. Some shaky, some almost illegible, but all sincere.
“Dear Mr. Wayne, you are the bravest cowboy. Sarah, 7 years old.”
“Mr. Wayne, my dad says you’re a true American. I want to be like you. Billy, 10 years old.”
“I watch your movies when they come to town. You never give up. Tommy, 8 years old.”
Twelve messages. Twelve children, somewhere in Montana, learning about America from scripts read aloud in a one-room schoolhouse.
Wayne folds the letter, puts it in his desk drawer, and thinks for a moment: “Before we go on, a quick question: tell me where you’re watching from. Let’s see which place has the most Duke fans.”
It’s March 15, 1961. Wayne is 53 years old, he’s made 60 Westerns, maybe more. He lost count. Some good, some forgettable, but he never thought of them as lessons, as teaching tools, as something that mattered beyond entertainment. And now, 12 children in Montana are acting out his scripts, learning values, growing up believing in something thanks to the movies he made.
Call your administrator.
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