The Americanization of Edward Bok | Page 8

knew that while spoken
languages might differ, there is one language understood by boys the
world over. And with this language Edward decided to do some
experimenting. After a few days at school, he cast his eyes over the
group of his tormentors, picked out one who seemed to him the
ringleader, and before the boy was aware of what had happened,
Edward Bok was in the full swing of his first real experiment with
Americanization. Of course the American boy retaliated. But the boy
from the Netherlands had not been born and brought up in the
muscle-building air of the Dutch dikes for nothing, and after a few

moments he found himself looking down on his tormentor and into the
eyes of a crowd of very respectful boys and giggling girls who readily
made a passageway for his brother and himself when they indicated a
desire to leave the schoolyard and go home.
Edward now felt that his Americanization had begun; but, always
believing that a thing begun must be carried to a finish, he took, or
gave--it depends upon the point of view--two or three more lessons in
this particular phase of Americanization before he convinced these
American schoolboys that it might be best for them to call a halt upon
further excursions in torment.
At the best, they were difficult days at school for a boy of six without
the language. But the national linguistic gift inherent in the Dutch race
came to the boy's rescue, and as the roots of the Anglo-Saxon lie in the
Frisian tongue, and thus in the language of his native country, Edward
soon found that with a change of vowel here and there the English
language was not so difficult of conquest. At all events, he set out to
master it.
But his fatal gift of editing, although its possession was unknown to
him, began to assert itself when, just as he seemed to be getting along
fairly well, he balked at following the Spencerian style of writing in his
copybooks. Instinctively he rebelled at the flourishes which
embellished that form of handwriting. He seemed to divine somehow
that such penmanship could not be useful or practicable for after life,
and so, with that Dutch stolidity that, once fixed, knows no altering, he
refused to copy his writing lessons. Of course trouble immediately
ensued between Edward and his teacher. Finding herself against a
literal blank wall--for Edward simply refused, but had not the gift of
English with which to explain his refusal--the teacher decided to take
the matter to the male principal of the school. She explained that she
had kept Edward after school for as long as two hours to compel him to
copy his Spencerian lesson, but that the boy simply sat quiet. He was
perfectly well-behaved, she explained, but as to his lesson, he would
attempt absolutely nothing.
It was the prevailing custom in the public schools of 1870 to punish
boys by making them hold out the palms of their hands, upon which the
principal would inflict blows with a rattan. The first time Edward was
punished in this way, his hand became so swollen he wondered at a

system of punishment which rendered him incapable of writing,
particularly as the discerning principal had chosen the boy's right hand
upon which to rain the blows. Edward was told to sit down at the
principal's own desk and copy the lesson. He sat, but he did not write.
He would not for one thing, and he could not if he would. After half an
hour of purposeless sitting, the principal ordered Edward again to stand
up and hold out his hand; and once more the rattan fell in repeated
blows. Of course it did no good, and as it was then five o'clock, and the
principal had inflicted all the punishment that the law allowed, and as
he probably wanted to go home as much as Edward did, he dismissed
the sore-handed but more-than-ever-determined Dutch boy.
Edward went home to his father, exhibited his swollen hand, explained
the reason, and showed the penmanship lesson which he had refused to
copy. It is a singular fact that even at that age he already understood
Americanization enough to realize that to cope successfully with any
American institution, one must be constructive as well as destructive.
He went to his room, brought out a specimen of Italian handwriting
which he had seen in a newspaper, and explained to his father that this
simpler penmanship seemed to him better for practical purposes than
the curlicue fancifully embroidered Spencerian style; that if he had to
learn penmanship, why not learn the system that was of more possible
use in after life?
Now, your Dutchman is nothing if not practical. He is very simple and
direct