Wayne signs a check for $500, made payable to the school.
No name, just the Montana school, Margaret’s class.
Then she sits down and writes a letter. A letter for everyone: for the teacher and for all the students together. She writes for an hour, crosses out lines, starts again, until it finally looks right.
“Dear Margaret and students, thank you for your letter. I am honored that you study my films, more than you can imagine. You asked me for advice on teaching values. This is what I believe. Courage is not the absence of fear. It is doing the right thing even when you are afraid.”
Honor is keeping your word even when no one is watching.
Being American means believing that everyone matters. Even people in small towns, far from anywhere.
I’m sending you a projector and some films. Not because you asked for it, but because students like you deserve to see stories on a screen, not just read them.
You’re not just 12 kids in Montana. You’re 12 Americans. That’s the whole world.
Keep studying. Keep learning. Keep believing in something bigger than yourselves. That’s what makes this country work.
His friend,
Duke”.
He seals the letter and sends it along with the projector and the films.
He doesn’t tell anyone. He doesn’t use it for publicity. He just sends it out and moves on to the next film.
Six months later, Wayne is in Montana filming How the West Was Won . A big production, several directors, an epic western. They’re filming in the mountains: beautiful scenery, cold, remote, in the middle of nowhere. One day, filming is canceled: delayed by the weather, rain. The crew sits around, plays cards. Wayne gets restless and asks his assistant about that school. The one with 12 students. The one he sent the projector to.
-Yeah.
-Where is?
—About 80 miles from here.
—Get me a car.
—Duke, it’s your day off. You should rest.
—I’m not going to rest. I’m going to see those children.
The assistant gets him a car. Wayne drives himself. Eighty miles on rural Montana roads. Two hours. No entourage, no press, no cameras. Just him in a rental car, following directions to a one-room schoolhouse.
She arrives at 2 p.m. There’s class. She can hear voices inside, children reciting something.
She knocks on the door. The room falls silent. Margaret opens it, sees John Wayne standing there… and drops the book she was holding.
—Sr. Wayne…
—I hope I’m not interrupting.
The 12 students are frozen, staring. Several are speechless. A girl starts to cry. Not from sadness: from being overwhelmed.
Wayne enters. The room is tiny. One large room, 12 desks, a wood-burning stove in the corner, a blackboard, an American flag, and at the back, the projector mounted on a table, with 10 film canisters stacked beside it.
Did you receive everything I sent you?
Margaret cannot speak, she can only nod.
Wayne walks over to the projector and touches it.
—Have you been using it every Friday?
Margaret finally manages to say:
—The children eagerly await it all week.
Wayne turns to the students: 12 pairs of eyes fixed on him; some scared, some excited, all incredulous.
—I received your letter, from all of you. Thank you for what you wrote. It meant a lot.
A small voice from the front row:
—Did you read my sentence?
Wayne looks. A girl, maybe seven. Blonde braids. Sarah.
—Yes, I read it. You said I’m the bravest cowboy. It’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.
Sarah blushes. She smiles.
Wayne spends the next three hours with them: answering questions, signing autographs on notebook paper, telling stories about filming, showing them how to pull off a scene, how to fall without getting hurt, how to make a shootout look real. He asks them what they’ve learned from his movies.
They respond:
—Courage, honor, standing up for what is right, never giving up, helping those weaker than you.
Wayne listens. He really listens. These kids understand him. They grasped the lessons he was trying to put in every movie, even when he didn’t know that’s what he was doing.
Near the end of the afternoon, a boy raises his hand. Small, dark hair, serious face. Tommy, 8 years old.
—Sr. Wayne…
—Yes, son.
—Why did he help us? We are nobodies.
The room falls silent.
All the children were waiting for the answer. Margaret, by the door, with her hands clasped, was also waiting.
Wayne walks over to Tommy’s desk, kneels down, and gets down to Tommy’s eye level.
—Listen to me carefully. You’re nobody. Don’t ever say that again. You’re Americans. All of you. That means you matter. Every single one of you. It doesn’t matter if you live in Hollywood or Montana or anywhere else. You’re Americans. That’s everyone.
Tommy’s eyes well up with tears. He nods. He doesn’t trust his own voice.
Wayne stands up and looks at them all.
—And when they grow up, they’ll help the next generation of kids, the ones who think they’re nobody. They’ll show them they matter. That’s how America works. We lift each other up. Got it?
