I've been thinking about the ways in which my students will integrate classic literature and its overarching themes. My students are a rather willing group since they chose our Classics Academy, but that doesn't mean this is going to be as easy as a pleasure cruise across the Mediterranean. Homer, Virgil, Aeschylus, Shakespeare, O'Neill--their writings are dense, complex, and will test all our patience and willingness; enthusiasm will wane--but hopefully wax again. On the one hand, it is not fair to expect them to be excited about working as hard as the men sculling those black ships over the wine dark sea, but I do not want them to feel their efforts are a series of Trojan War skirmishes. I want them to understand our work will help them discover treasures far more beautiful than Achilles' view of Breseis or those hammered gold and silver tripods. So during this morning's yoga practice, while trying to clear my mind, I instead kept returning to the concept of creating relevance for these 21st century students as they explore the origins of western intellectual thought. And I realized that each student will have a different journey and that is exactly how true understanding develops. In many cases I will not even be opening doors for them; rather, I might simply be encouraging them to stray from their comfort zones, their own movements parting the mist to reveal doors to consider. Only then might they contemplate lifting a latch, nudging a door open a crack, or throwing caution to the wind and barreling through. I will try to remember it is always their choice to integrate these wonderful, and often challenging, experiences, and that the knowledge might not be what they expect--at that point I hope someone will bring up Oedipus. The more we mortals learn, the more we realize that we are unlike the deathless gods whose lives are unchanging. We bear the cost of life's lessons in the ebb and flow, the yin and yang of experience. Sometimes we must leave that which we love so dearly that we fear death in its absence. We learn that clenching our fist takes much more energy than relaxing our palm and opening our fingers to the world and that if we do not let go we will die.
Aeneas had to leave Dido in order to fulfill his destiny. Patroclus had to die before Achilles would rejoin the battle and ensure Greek victory, which in turn sealed Achilles' fate. I am convinced after my most recent reading that Achilles' knowledge of his fate made him mad and that madness drove him to gruesomely desecrate Hector's body, one of the most horrific scenes in a text dripping with the blood of mutilated men. Unwelcome knowledge can do that to a man. Yet Odysseus, no happier to possess the truth of two decades away from Ithaca to fight a war over a stolen bride, ventured to the Underworld to learn the most wrenching truth: he would arrive home, but only after losing his men, his ships and the man he had been up until that point. Odysseus was ready for that existential knowledge even if he did not want to be. I hope I am willing to be open to that which I am destined to learn as I help my students be ready for their truths.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Achilles' Rage
"You talk of food?
I have no taste for food--what I really crave
is slaughter and blood and the choking groans of men!"
It is easy to view Achilles' rage as a spectator. Inexorably waiting by his ships while the Argives die in droves, Achilles personifies the spoiled brat who creates havoc to feed his self-righteousness. Fully conscious of his absence's impact, he clearly expresses his desire to wait for enemy forces to reach the Hellespont before he'll re-engage Hector and the Trojans. Only the loss of his dear friend Patroclus stirs him to action. From this angle, it is difficult to see how mass destruction of both Greek and Trojan forces bolsters Achilles or either warring faction. I say this while believing in, although not willingly embracing, the concept of regenerative destruction as a means to attain grace. There is no serenity in the Iliad--even the reconciliation between Achilles and Priam in Book XXIV holds more resignation than acceptance. Thus it's easy to point fingers at Achilles--and Agamemnon in his own ego-centric destruction--because no matter my proclivity to clench my anger in my belly or bite my nose to spite my face, my behavior cannot possibly be as bad as that of these "heroes."
Yet in judging Achilles, I am projecting my rage on him. I am able to deflect my destructive tendencies in much the same way as a petty thief discounts her culpability by comparing her pilfering of a trifle to the charlatans who trick senior citizens out of their life savings. And so the study of Achilles' rage demands introspection rather than projection: why is rage, which destroys, so fulfilling that it overwhelms the desire for food, which nurtures?
Achilles is a far more complicated persona than the warrior who allows his comrades to die because he lost his girl to a man so self-serving he sacrificed his daughter so he could take up sword and shield. Achilles repeatedly tells those who beg his return to battle that "The same honor waits/for the coward and the brave. They both go down to Death,/the fighter who shirks, the one who works to exhaustion." And he echoes those words in the Underworld, when he tells Odysseus he'd rather be a slave on earth than king of the dead. Fully aware of his fated glorious death, Achilles' anger is valid. But can his actions, or mine or anyone else's, also be justified? In many ways, life is a series of losses and how we deal with them, whether the timely death of an aged parent or friend, or the sudden losses that seem particularly unfair, defines us. Our rage seems to fulfill us but, perhaps, we are not so unlike Achilles, as we willing encourage our anger's potential to blot out the pains of life's vicissitudes, especially those that force us to face our mortality.
I have no taste for food--what I really crave
is slaughter and blood and the choking groans of men!"
It is easy to view Achilles' rage as a spectator. Inexorably waiting by his ships while the Argives die in droves, Achilles personifies the spoiled brat who creates havoc to feed his self-righteousness. Fully conscious of his absence's impact, he clearly expresses his desire to wait for enemy forces to reach the Hellespont before he'll re-engage Hector and the Trojans. Only the loss of his dear friend Patroclus stirs him to action. From this angle, it is difficult to see how mass destruction of both Greek and Trojan forces bolsters Achilles or either warring faction. I say this while believing in, although not willingly embracing, the concept of regenerative destruction as a means to attain grace. There is no serenity in the Iliad--even the reconciliation between Achilles and Priam in Book XXIV holds more resignation than acceptance. Thus it's easy to point fingers at Achilles--and Agamemnon in his own ego-centric destruction--because no matter my proclivity to clench my anger in my belly or bite my nose to spite my face, my behavior cannot possibly be as bad as that of these "heroes."
Yet in judging Achilles, I am projecting my rage on him. I am able to deflect my destructive tendencies in much the same way as a petty thief discounts her culpability by comparing her pilfering of a trifle to the charlatans who trick senior citizens out of their life savings. And so the study of Achilles' rage demands introspection rather than projection: why is rage, which destroys, so fulfilling that it overwhelms the desire for food, which nurtures?
Achilles is a far more complicated persona than the warrior who allows his comrades to die because he lost his girl to a man so self-serving he sacrificed his daughter so he could take up sword and shield. Achilles repeatedly tells those who beg his return to battle that "The same honor waits/for the coward and the brave. They both go down to Death,/the fighter who shirks, the one who works to exhaustion." And he echoes those words in the Underworld, when he tells Odysseus he'd rather be a slave on earth than king of the dead. Fully aware of his fated glorious death, Achilles' anger is valid. But can his actions, or mine or anyone else's, also be justified? In many ways, life is a series of losses and how we deal with them, whether the timely death of an aged parent or friend, or the sudden losses that seem particularly unfair, defines us. Our rage seems to fulfill us but, perhaps, we are not so unlike Achilles, as we willing encourage our anger's potential to blot out the pains of life's vicissitudes, especially those that force us to face our mortality.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Hospitality
They reached out for the good things that lay at hand
and when they had put aside desire for food and drink,
Ajax nodded to Phoenix.
In Book 9 of The Iliad, in the midst of a battle in which the Greek forces have suffered their worst losses, sharing a meal takes precedence over resolving conflict. Sitting and eating together can reduce tension and encourage conversation--after all, Socrates engaged his fellows at banquet--and I am most interested in how creating a more intimate setting for my classics students might engender greater enthusiasm for and deeper understanding of the literature.
The first time I read The Odyssey as an adult, I was struck by the consistent references to and ritualized nature of eating. This resonated because food has always been an important element in my family and other relationships. Holidays still revolve around food--more of it in the past than present and I cringe when remembering how much we consumed in the celebration of Christmas, Thanksgiving, birthdays and anniversaries. No matter the financial constraints or feuding family members, the feasts were sacrosanct.
In The Odyssey, all conversation and inquiry must wait until the food has been served. Neither Nestor nor Menelaus inquire as to Telemachos' identity before sacrificing the oxen, making offerings to the gods, then serving the meat with bread and wine. The "breaking of bread" has had a long tradition and the hearth fire was the primary concern when setting up a new community. The hearth fire, or hestia--named for the goddess--was brought from the town from which the Greeks migrated and a central fire supplied the new town. This reverence even extended into batte, where the military leaders would bring coals from their home hearths into the encampments. This makes particular sense in a tangential way, as Hestia, the goddess, embodied by her hearthfire, is also representative of the funeral pyre that was also so carefully tended. Shaped like the earth and raked into a mound to keep the embers alive, the hestia fire juxtaposes birth and death, the most elemental aspects of life. The innumerable funeral pyres are what forces Agamemnon to send Odysseus with an offer of amends to Achilles.
The above passage above from The Iliad preceeds Odysseus' plea to Achilles to rejoin his comrads in battle before they are all slaughtered or retreat in shame to their black-hulled ships. Although Achilles is aware of Odysseus' intentions and that he will not yield his ego to Agamemnon's, he prepares the feast and does not entertain the offer until all parties have been satisfied. It is difficult to remain hostile in this situation.
As for my students, I have always subscribed to the concept that "if you feed them, they will come." I learned this from my mentor, Vicky Willson, and it is true. A box of graham crackers, crate of clementines, or any nourishment, no matter how seemingly trivial, builds a bond among the group. In 2004-2005, I was blessed with the most wonderful class of 14 students and rarely did a period go by without a meal. They kept a drawer filled with their favorite treats and as we shared food and ideas we nourished our bodies, our minds, and, through the sheer act of sharing, our souls. The ones who've stayed in touch--Meera, John, Joey, Sarah and Judah--have all expressed the impact of our unconventional classroom on their ability to think creativly and to engage with others.
At the conclusion of the meal Achilles serves Odysseus, the contentious issue at hand is debated; despite the gathering's convivial nature Achilles' anger and resentment rule the moment. Yet when Odysseus later meets with Achilles in Book XI of The Odyssey, there is no residual conflict between these two men who had differnt priorities in another place and time. This time, Odysseus takes to heart Achilles' admonition that he'd "rather be a slave on earth for another man--/some dirt poor tenant farmer who scrapes to keep alive--/than rule down here over all the breathless dead."
I would like to think that despite conflicts among individuals, the repeated offering of hospitality will bring us closer together, enabling the shared nourishment of our bodies, minds and souls, to lead us to take risks that unlock new levels of understanding. These are the memories that can last a lifetime.
and when they had put aside desire for food and drink,
Ajax nodded to Phoenix.
In Book 9 of The Iliad, in the midst of a battle in which the Greek forces have suffered their worst losses, sharing a meal takes precedence over resolving conflict. Sitting and eating together can reduce tension and encourage conversation--after all, Socrates engaged his fellows at banquet--and I am most interested in how creating a more intimate setting for my classics students might engender greater enthusiasm for and deeper understanding of the literature.
The first time I read The Odyssey as an adult, I was struck by the consistent references to and ritualized nature of eating. This resonated because food has always been an important element in my family and other relationships. Holidays still revolve around food--more of it in the past than present and I cringe when remembering how much we consumed in the celebration of Christmas, Thanksgiving, birthdays and anniversaries. No matter the financial constraints or feuding family members, the feasts were sacrosanct.
In The Odyssey, all conversation and inquiry must wait until the food has been served. Neither Nestor nor Menelaus inquire as to Telemachos' identity before sacrificing the oxen, making offerings to the gods, then serving the meat with bread and wine. The "breaking of bread" has had a long tradition and the hearth fire was the primary concern when setting up a new community. The hearth fire, or hestia--named for the goddess--was brought from the town from which the Greeks migrated and a central fire supplied the new town. This reverence even extended into batte, where the military leaders would bring coals from their home hearths into the encampments. This makes particular sense in a tangential way, as Hestia, the goddess, embodied by her hearthfire, is also representative of the funeral pyre that was also so carefully tended. Shaped like the earth and raked into a mound to keep the embers alive, the hestia fire juxtaposes birth and death, the most elemental aspects of life. The innumerable funeral pyres are what forces Agamemnon to send Odysseus with an offer of amends to Achilles.
The above passage above from The Iliad preceeds Odysseus' plea to Achilles to rejoin his comrads in battle before they are all slaughtered or retreat in shame to their black-hulled ships. Although Achilles is aware of Odysseus' intentions and that he will not yield his ego to Agamemnon's, he prepares the feast and does not entertain the offer until all parties have been satisfied. It is difficult to remain hostile in this situation.
As for my students, I have always subscribed to the concept that "if you feed them, they will come." I learned this from my mentor, Vicky Willson, and it is true. A box of graham crackers, crate of clementines, or any nourishment, no matter how seemingly trivial, builds a bond among the group. In 2004-2005, I was blessed with the most wonderful class of 14 students and rarely did a period go by without a meal. They kept a drawer filled with their favorite treats and as we shared food and ideas we nourished our bodies, our minds, and, through the sheer act of sharing, our souls. The ones who've stayed in touch--Meera, John, Joey, Sarah and Judah--have all expressed the impact of our unconventional classroom on their ability to think creativly and to engage with others.
At the conclusion of the meal Achilles serves Odysseus, the contentious issue at hand is debated; despite the gathering's convivial nature Achilles' anger and resentment rule the moment. Yet when Odysseus later meets with Achilles in Book XI of The Odyssey, there is no residual conflict between these two men who had differnt priorities in another place and time. This time, Odysseus takes to heart Achilles' admonition that he'd "rather be a slave on earth for another man--/some dirt poor tenant farmer who scrapes to keep alive--/than rule down here over all the breathless dead."
I would like to think that despite conflicts among individuals, the repeated offering of hospitality will bring us closer together, enabling the shared nourishment of our bodies, minds and souls, to lead us to take risks that unlock new levels of understanding. These are the memories that can last a lifetime.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Athena
Then Athena, child of Zeus whose shield is thunder,
letting fall her supple robe at the Father's threshold--
rich brocade, stitched with her own hands' labor--
donned the battle-shirt of the lord of lightening,
buckled her breastplate geared for wrenching war
and over her shouldres slung her shield . . .
Then onto the flaming chariot Pallas set her feet
and seized her spear--weighted, heavy, the massive shaft
she wields to break the battle lines of heroes
the mighty Father's daughter storms against.
This passage from the Iliad struck me like Athena's aegis and I remember again why I am so enamored of Homer. He manages to imbue with beauty the preparations for the fight. The Aeneid's battle scenes horrified me and so I let myself become inured to them. Homer's rendition is different--there is a humanity in his characters that draws me in despite the violence. Perhaps I see my own potential for violence; I understand that is part of my human nature. And I do admire Athena's confidence, misguided and overwhelming as it sometimes is and perhaps I wish for that as well. What might my aegis look like? That is an interesting question for my scholars come September.
In Book V, "Diomedes Fights the Gods," the mortals are truly at the mercy of the deities who are supposed to be their protectors and it is impossible for me to not draw parallels to the current political situation. Congress and corporations jockey for position, sacrifice one group or play one against the other--even against their peers--in the same way Zeus, Ares, Athena, Hera and Aphrodite attempt to shape the battle for their own gain or to diminish another. Those sacrificed and those spared are at the mercy of powers that should be benevolent, but instead orchestrate the violence for personal gain. In The Iliad the mortals are grand and glorious for they risk death; the gods have nothing to lose. Perhaps that is why I would wear Athena's robe and shield.
letting fall her supple robe at the Father's threshold--
rich brocade, stitched with her own hands' labor--
donned the battle-shirt of the lord of lightening,
buckled her breastplate geared for wrenching war
and over her shouldres slung her shield . . .
Then onto the flaming chariot Pallas set her feet
and seized her spear--weighted, heavy, the massive shaft
she wields to break the battle lines of heroes
the mighty Father's daughter storms against.
This passage from the Iliad struck me like Athena's aegis and I remember again why I am so enamored of Homer. He manages to imbue with beauty the preparations for the fight. The Aeneid's battle scenes horrified me and so I let myself become inured to them. Homer's rendition is different--there is a humanity in his characters that draws me in despite the violence. Perhaps I see my own potential for violence; I understand that is part of my human nature. And I do admire Athena's confidence, misguided and overwhelming as it sometimes is and perhaps I wish for that as well. What might my aegis look like? That is an interesting question for my scholars come September.
In Book V, "Diomedes Fights the Gods," the mortals are truly at the mercy of the deities who are supposed to be their protectors and it is impossible for me to not draw parallels to the current political situation. Congress and corporations jockey for position, sacrifice one group or play one against the other--even against their peers--in the same way Zeus, Ares, Athena, Hera and Aphrodite attempt to shape the battle for their own gain or to diminish another. Those sacrificed and those spared are at the mercy of powers that should be benevolent, but instead orchestrate the violence for personal gain. In The Iliad the mortals are grand and glorious for they risk death; the gods have nothing to lose. Perhaps that is why I would wear Athena's robe and shield.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Conversation and creation.
This creation began with a conversation, a discussion of the shared belief in the wisdom contained in the original texts and historical experiences of the Classical Period. The primordial literature speaks to the archetypal nature of human existence, revealing the ways in which the arts and sciences evolved from common sources, and the wisdom of the poets who recognized collective human proclivities, strengths and frailties.
The Classics Academy consists of three academic courses, English, Latin/Vergil, History of Mathematics and a symposium, which will provide an opportunity for students to synthesize their new and past understandings as they imagine new connections among their past and present experiences. What will be most important for their growth, as well as mine and that of the other teachers, is conversation. The most satisfying exchanges I have with former students center on the ways in which they have come to recognize arcetypal themes in the their current studies and in the world outside of academia. I hope those who read this blog will contribute their realizations and become part of this conversation.
The Classics Academy consists of three academic courses, English, Latin/Vergil, History of Mathematics and a symposium, which will provide an opportunity for students to synthesize their new and past understandings as they imagine new connections among their past and present experiences. What will be most important for their growth, as well as mine and that of the other teachers, is conversation. The most satisfying exchanges I have with former students center on the ways in which they have come to recognize arcetypal themes in the their current studies and in the world outside of academia. I hope those who read this blog will contribute their realizations and become part of this conversation.
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