Memory Takes Hold

In the end, it was in the beginning.
 
In a most beautiful paradox, we begin with memory. Mnemosyne and her daughters inspire us to create not only art, but, in the process, to fashion ourselves from all that has preceded us on both an intimate and an historical level. I unconsciously understood this, as my early fascination with mythology attests. But it did not rise to consciousness until I read Great Expectations and committed these words to memory: "Pause you who read this, and think for a moment on the long chain of iron or gold, thorns or flowers, that might never have bound you but for the formation of the first link on one memorable day." The perfect roundness of the past—the personal and the archetypal—meeting the present fills me with contentment. And it has been a joy this year to share in the weaving of a communal tapestry of the classical and the contemporary.

“With the Heliconian Muses let us start our song” begins Hesiod’s Theogony, the Greek myth of the universe's origins. The Greeks believed Chaos was the womb in which we were fashioned, and I believe the Greeks were responding to that inexorable desire for understanding that lies in the borderlands, just beyond our comprehension. Our class focused on the importance of the origins that have framed philosophical thought from its inception, forward to the Sartrian tenet of existence preceding essence; the individual past informs the individual present. But in the Jungian sense, the collective past—what he called the collective unconscious—also blends with personal history to create a human tapestry that spans the ages. This fabric illustrates man's greatest endeavors and deepest conflicts, which are first noted in the seminal Western texts: The Iliad; The Odyssey; and The Aeneid. Since the Classics students had previously read The Odyssey and were to read and translate The Aeneid, it was important that they understand how and why Odysseus, Aeneas, and the other warriors of The Iliad have come to embody their archetypes. Our discussion of the Trojan War and its aftermath nurtured many discussions of what it means to be a man and, more importantly, what it means to be human. Agamemnon was universally denounced as an egotistical warmonger, Odysseus was viewed as the flawed human most like us, and Achilles seen as both a spoiled crybaby and a man in a Catch-22 not of his own making. Students were enamored of Patroculus and Diomedes because they could identify with their struggles against the immortal and mortal powers, fate and chance, that exert influence over their own lives. These same archetypes resonated throughout the characters we met in the months that followed: Julius Caesar, Mark Antony, Cleopatra, Henry V, Medea, Eleanor of Aquitaine and her sons, and their reflections in the dysfunctional families of Tennessee Williams and Eugene O’Neill. Vanity, insecurity, and the struggles for power and fame—with a corresponding loss of love and empathy—have always motivated humans.

As the first year of the MHS Classics Academy came to an end, the students confidently answered the question of how and why we humans have arrived at this place. The nine young women and men who chose to forge this new path capped the year with a glorious exhibit of the myriad ways in which they synthesized the old with the new and thus entwined themselves with the ancients. Last September, I did not know which aspects of our studies would resonate most strongly and inspire the students’ creative processes. Over the course of the year we struggled with the usual distractions: snow days, schedule changes, college acceptances and disappointments.  Yet the work these students produced revealed they never lost focus and were clearly conscious of the seminal threads that seem to weave humanity in being.

On June 15 the students illuminated their vision of these patterns. Their art, which ranged from tiles and wood carvings to dramatic readings, performances and film, were not simply informed by the works we read and the heated conversations they inspired. The students did not just illustrate the question of how the personal and collective past informs their present. Instead, their art embodied the existential question of who and why we are. Their responses invariably reflected the essential influences of The Iliad and Medea. I confess to being fascinated by Medea, and we had compared the Witch of Colchis with many strong females from Hera to Helen to Electra to Eleanor of Aquitaine to the women weilding political power in the present. But the students' empathy for the Medea, if not approval for her actions, was astonishing. As one young man said as he presented his depiction of Medea and her children, in a series of panels united by two twisted strands that might symbolize the Fates' threads, DNA’s double-helix, or linked omegas, the Witch of Colchis had no choice and any of us, when presented with her dilemma, must accept that we might be willing to act as she did. An aspiring actor and director wove Medea's abandonment into a contemporary tale in which none of the young, hip, urban professionals ends up content, let alone happy. Medea's soul lies in every spouse insulted by the likes of Newt Gingrich or humiliated by Anthony Weiner. We are all the woman scorned.

Likewise, we are all soldiers in those armies at impasse before Troy’s gates. Students depicted the warriors’ character flaws and painful experiences in ways that reflect the human condition. We are as inflexible as Agamemnon and as frustrated as his fellow generals as they watch lives lost to his and Achilles’ stubbornness. They, like us, lament our inability to be heard and understood. We are as divided as Achilles, struggling with irreconcilable choices; the conflict over whether to seek meaning in public glory or in personal satisfaction has certainly not become an ancient artifact. We are also Andromache and Hecuba, watching our husbands and children perish for no good reason, and we are the violated Cassandra, our truths discounted. Two students created pieces that celebrate and embody our divided selves: a mask of the Minotaur, which reflects the inexorable commingling of human and beast, and a symphony, Reconciliation, the harmonies of which urge us to resolve our discord.  In the end their art argues for zugos, Greek for balance.

I am so very proud these nine students, who opened themselves to the muses and allowed themselves to be guided by the possibilities inherent in not simply illuminating the classics, but rather by animating them. Although not all will be directly studying the humanities as undergraduates, I know their work will be shaped by their past, and they will not fail to notice the patterns in their own lives as they follow their paths—ones that overlay the archetypal trails laid out for them by Homer, Virgil, Euripides and all who have come after them. I know that their spirits and the tapestry we wove together will sustain me on my own journey, one that is a bit more balanced and full of wonderful memories.

Antony and Cleopatra

I am rereading Shakespeare's Antony and Cleopatra for the first time in five or six years and searching for its truths, for me and my students. I used to teach the play but, even then, I was not always comfortable with my understanding or grasp of the history, although Shakespeare takes such liberties that it almost does not matter. I wrote my senior thesis on the play, but remember nothing but loving the play and rooting around the big Boston Public Library in Copley Square researching Plutarch. I still have that paper but have not the nerve to read it. Yet it might hold the clue as to why this play fascinated me then and what lessons it has to teach now, one more way the past can clarify the present moment.

I had a wonderful professor, William Carroll, who is now the head of the English Department at Boston University.  He had a way of making the language accessible and I fell for the langourous dialogue that transported me from the shores of the Charles to the shores of the Nile.  I most likely viewed the play as little more than a romantic fantasy but, although barely 20 years old, I did not imagine dying for love was some noble act; I never did have patience for Romeo or Juliet. It was more that Cleopatra and Antony cared for something so intensely they were willing to be consumed by their desire, an understanding embraced more in youth than at any other age.  I recognize now that what they cared for most deeply was themselves and, despite support from Harold Bloom, I am sure my observation is a bit cynical. Because I want to care that much about the people and beliefs I embrace and am a tad jealous of their willingness, and their desperation, to feel so sure about their desires.  Our willingness to acknowledge our yearning for a deep, abiding, even all-consuming passion for something or someone is what gives us the strength to endure life's tragedies, absurdities, and its inescapable end. 

Thus the spectacle of Cleopatra and Antony resonates on a visceral level.  I want my students to feel their myriad passions, to know so much is possible when they give themselves wholly to what they hold so dear that to lose it would be to lose themselves.  As Shakespeare's lovers move inevitably towards their demise, he cautions us that the Pompeys, Caesars, and the rigidity of Rome are waiting in the wings.  Yet I know there is a middle, fertile ground where we we temper our enthusiam and passion just enough so that we can live spontaneously, but not recklessly--with the energy of youth and the mindfulness of adulthood.  Bloom reminds us that Cleopatra does not come into her own until Antony dies and her death waits in the basket of figs.  Perhaps being aware that the Nile worms await is enough to spur all of us to consciously embrace our desires.  This is the same consciousness Camus' Sisyphus embraces and, if we believe Camus, we can be happy.

A Feast

My dozen young classicists breeze into the room, tugging at the snack drawer--repeatedly--until they realize it's locked. "Hey, what happened to hospitality?" one grumbles. There are certain lessons it is not difficult to teach and sharing food facilitates the process. After all, throughout The Iliad and The Odyssey the meal comes before everything, even introductions. As angry as the Greeks are with Achilles, Odysseus and Nestor break bread with him first with no mention of the carnage his feud with Agamemnon has visited on the Achaeans.

I have watched as my twelve have bonded over the past months. Their enthusiasm for the Classics, its literature and its archetypal themes, is infectious and, I sense, somewhat proprietary as they come to realize they are speaking a language that may be universal and that they are joining a community.  No one wants to be alone--the Greeks ostracized Bellerophon for his hubris rather than sentencing him to death. The students' distinctions begin to blur yet their differences remain, a union that benefits both the group and its members.  Each knows the others' favorite treats and a pile of clementines sits in front of one student while the last gummy bear is presented to another; a student struggles to cut hunk of homemade bread big enough for 4 into 12 pieces.  Likewise, students are tolerant of the myriad opinions even as they develop predictably.  Medea's champions and her detractors will each have their impassioned say.  I expect next week's discussion of Cleopatra will develop similarly and students will smile and nod and patiently process the comments until one or more dissenters will announce something along the lines of: "I understand what you are saying and I cannot argue with your logic.  I still think Medea got a crummy deal."  They operate in direct contrast to so much of the "real world" discourse and counter the prevailing research that suggests we have all made up our minds and only give credence to, or even seek out, opinions, beliefs and philosophies sympathetic to our own.  They are patient when they sense someone needs to be forceful; they likewise know just how to keep from crossing the line into stridency.  Eventually, one will say it's time for a snack. 

My other students tell me that Classics is my favorite class--and they are right.  But it is not because they are any brighter or more interesting or easier to manage (truth be told, teaching them can be like herding cats--specifically the ones in Rome's Torre Argentina).  It is their shared love for the classics that engenders the common language that weaves them together and nurtures their souls in a way that makes them dear to mine.  But it is also the traditional nourishment, the breaking of bread--or sharing other treats--that sates their physical hunger and opens their minds and spirits to the rest of the feast.