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.

So Hard On a Woman

I have taught Euripides' Medea to my AP students for several years, because I love her passion as well as her willingness to destroy Jason in retribution for cavalierly tossing her aside for political expedience. I also find myself drawn to Medea because of the power she possesses by way of her connection to Hecate and so I am as equally wary as I am enthralled. Jason, completely seduced by Medea when he needed her, now diminishes her by discounting her contributions; a bit of revisionist history that my students astutely noted. Yet even worse, he damns her "cleverness," an insult that resonated with students of both genders. Medea's journey from exaltation to condemnation is swift and devastating, and derives as much from Jason's--and society's--misogyny as it does from Medea's penchant to ride the crest of her emotions. Medea is seductive and I and my students are drawn to this cthonic woman who summons the power of the dark arts. I hope that, unlike Jason, we will remember how easy and destructive it is to lose our "zugos," the Greek's word for the beam that balances the yoke or a pair of scales, should we choose to deny the incredible power we possess.


From Medea to “dumb blond” stereotypes, women have been vilified for using their intelligence and wit. Zeus swallowed Metis, whose name means “cunning intelligence,” because she would bear his successor. Instead of a male usurper, Zeus and Metis’ sole offspring was Athena, who, although sagacious, could never equal to her father in power or influence; instead she balances his overweening emotions with her (sometimes) overweening logic and reason. Medea, living among the mortals rather than on rarified Olympus, acknowledges that a clever female invites trouble and that to succumb to the marriage yoke is a wife's safest path; but she cannot resign herself to the rule of intolerant and self-satisfied men such as Jason and Creon. Thus the play teaches us to never become too comfortable in our power nor so sure of ourselves that we become oblivious to the obvious. Shame a woman for her cleverness and she will prove herself the man's better in her machinations. Allow passion to usurp all logic and reason and risk regret and resentment.

I introduced my students to Medea in the usual way, reviewing the culture in which Medea lived, one in which human life was not valued, and emphasized that Euripides was rather sympathetic towards women and the powerless. The initial class discussion proceeded along a predictable trajectory, with some students unable to look beyond the obviously inexcusable infanticide. But looking beyond is essential, for if classical drama illuminates any truth it is that the horrors of exceeding boundaries leads to epic disasters. My students clearly realized the flaws inherent in the ongoing relationship between the genders. My young ladies were distraught that nothing had seemingly changed since Medea flew out of Corinth on a dragon-drawn chariot, that the men who run around are still glorified as "players" and the women are still seen as whores. They also acknowledged that while children born out of wedlock today are not shunned as Medea’s sons would have been, their mothers are still judged in ways their fathers are not. They noted that "childbirth was dangerous on so many levels and that men are not at risk." While some students continued to deny the possibility of love or rage so enveloping they might consume a person, others began to understand the inherent danger in becoming lost to a relationship. They pointed to Briseis, fought over by Agamemnon and Achilles until she no longer seemed to exist except as their political football. And not one of them believed either warrior's claims to have not known her in the carnal sense.

There are eight young women and four young men in my class, and while they were all somewhat sympathetic to Medea, students of both genders seemed to excuse Jason. No one thought it was a good idea for him to leave Medea for Glauce, yet after the first reading some still felt Jason had tried to do the right thing in a difficult situation. Medea’s stalwart supporters were outraged. So I asked them to redirect their focus towards Jason--leaving Medea and the infanticide for the moment--and the discussion shifted toward the double standard. It was one of the moments teachers live for: when we do not have to interject a breath, let alone a syllable, as the students defended, jockeyed, jostled and retrenched their positions. It was a beautiful moving picture of what true learning looks like and once the passion receded, students acknowledged and respected each other’s positions.

My inspired students had more to say than a 67 minute period could hold, so they continued their discussion online in an artful weaving of classical threads on a contemporary loom, shuttling back and forth in despair that gender inequality has persisted for at least 3000 years--yet they wanted to hope something might change in their lifetime. Comparisons of Medea with Hilary Clinton, Sarah Palin, Penelope and Hecuba brought both optimism and resignation. They mused whether fairy tales and romance films perpetuate the concept of a woman's inability to live contentedly without a man. They returned again and again to that archetypal tragic flaw, hubris, which condemns so many to a prison or grave constructed by overreaching emotions--the failure to yoke oneself to both reason and passion.

I wonder if we respond to Medea on a visceral level, that in admitting we possess the power to ruin our creations--those that are most precious to us-- we must admit to our destructive potential. Medea cannot simply eliminate Glauce, Creon, or even Jason, for all three characters deserve their fates for their arrogance, hubris, cruelty and selfishness. She annihilates her old life in order to gain a new one; there is no integration, no balance, of the old and the new.

My students have learned from Medea's losses and inflexibility. One young man wrote that Jason's problem was his inability to view Medea as his equal. He recognized that relationships thrive when both parties are in balance. I would like to think this young man is not an anomaly. What I do know for sure is that the discussions we begin will not end in my classroom, and that all of us will be more conscious of ourselves and the ways in which we interact—ever mindful that we possess the power of our emotions to create or destroy.

Invocation

Daughters of Mnemosyne, Muses of Heliconian, I cannot claim to be descended, in body or spirit, from Hesiod or Homer, whose songs weave the ancients' tales so tightly their sheen illumes the modern world.  Yet I dare to hope for a fragment of the gifts you lavished on them.  Shower me with your inspiration, that as your mother, Mnemosyne, imbued you with the songs that unlock deepest memory of past, present, and what will be, instill my psyche with the sounds that evoke words which may speak across all times to this day. Muses, guide my spindle to smoothly weave the disparate threads that form patterns that can be heard, felt and seen.  May I, and my students, remember all that has gone before as we weave the tapestry that wraps us all in the beauty of ancient wisdom.

The Daughters of Mnemosyne

The nine Muses are commonly referred to as the goddesses of inspiration--how mundane and, well, uninspiring for those credited with the creativity inherent in human development of the arts and sciences that forms the basis of culture and civilization!  Thus it is inconceivable that I would mention the Muses without considering their lineage.  Fathered by Zeus, like so many Olympian offspring, it is their mother whose attributes imbue them with power.  Mnemosyne is the goddess of memory and we must delve beneath the surface to find what she embodies beyond her appellation.  Mnemosyne, pronounced ne-mos' e ne, engenders remembrance, or mindfulness in that she calls us to live in the moment, conscious of all the prior knowledge through which we tend to process our present experiences.   Classical thought and literature evoke the past in our present and facilitate our weaving of our personal and humanity's experiences.

As my class officially begins its journey September 7, I am well aware that we all bring our histories with us and that C.J. Jung's belief that humans are born possessing a consciousness of humanity's communal past--what he termed the collective unconscious--should be interwoven with Socrates' assertion that humans possess all knowledge and that questioning will allow the necessary information to rise to the surface.  I will begin today's first lesson with Theogony, in which Hesiod invokes the Muses and further devotes many lines to their influence on him and on the immortals whom he extols.  Likewise, Homer begins The Odyssey, and The Iliad with invocations to the Muse--albeit in very different ways--and so I have my foundation as I model for students the myriad ways to integrate the past through Classical literature and identifying its DNA in our historical, social, and cultural framework.

When the student is willing the teacher appears.

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.