Via Facilis

In the post just prior to this one ("Just When Should Those Readings Become Connected?"), I wrote about the timing of Interconnected Readings.
When to introduce them?
My take: two or three months into a Latin course.
Not from day one?
No.
Why?
Students know little or nothing about their own language, let alone Latin.
They need to stretch out those muscles, take a few short runs, limber up.
You must train for a marathon before you run it.
And that marathon will not be on flat ground.

But doesn't everybody like a story?
Yes.
A good one.
Students have little patience for unchallenging stories, or ones that talk down to them.
I have my own difficulties with courses that emphasize the acquisition of historical, cultural, and societal informational tid-bits at the expense of the real learning of real Latin. The implicit (though - hopefully - unintended) message: mastering Latin in specific and language in general is not a primary concern.

Oh, to shoot myself in the foot before I learn to walk.
I'm not against honey on the rim of the cup - provided that the medicine within is the real deal.

What then should be the precursor to Interconnected Readings?

Sentences designed to highlight and drill syntax, morphology, and vocabulary.

What about those sentences?
Do they have to be pristine models of both grammar and logic?
Should they always make perfect sense?
Why?

It's a good thing to remember that sentences can be grammatically correct and still be sensically warped. Take, for instance, the expression "Give me a break." You could grammatically rewrite it as "Give a break to me." But it doesn't have the same punch.

How about the following?
"The computer was so overloaded, it went haywire."
"I was so overwhelmed, I went haywire."

Both sentences are grammatical. The second is odd. Why? Because "haywire" is generally used of machines, not people.

Now look at the following:

You can close a door.
You can slam a door.
You can close a case.
You can't slam a case.
You can speak of an open and shut case.
Although a door opens and shuts, you would not speak of an open and shut door.

A man reaching for his dress jacket exclaimed,
"Oh, no! The left pocket is ripped!"
"You're putting me on," replied the jacket.

I hit the pavement.
It hit me back.
I hit the pavement running.
I hit the running pavement.
Running, I hit the pavement.
Then I hit the deck.
It was not a happy camper.

An Invaluable Lesson:
Never underestimate the power of the Absurd.

The Absurd in a sentence presents students with three options: 1. they can dismiss the sentence because it is meaningless; 2. they can manufacture a context wherein the sentence in fact does make sense, thus making the meaningless meaningful; 3. they can accept the sentence on its own terms. It is a sign of real linguistic understanding if students can move beyond option #1 to #2 and then on to #3. The progression shows that they recognize that a sentence can simultaneously be grammatical and absurd.

The point?
In translating unconnected or limitedly connected sentences, students build, flex, and strengthen their understanding of both Latin and English. A sentence from the realm of the Absurd fortifies their linguistic suppleness. Then when the real story comes along, they will be ready.
And the language of the story need not be sacrificed on the altar of culture.

Tomorrow - The Roman Empire Strikes Back.

In my last post, I wrote of the Absurd - how it powers sentences to make the mastery of Latin (in specific), and the understanding of language (in general), readily accessible. Students tend to progress to the point where they either accept the sentence on its own terms, or provide a context wherein the sentence has meaning for them. Or both.

This is a story about how some of my students opted for the latter path.

When I was in high school, that brilliant, technologically revolutionary masterpiece Star Wars came out, with its (no longer) cryptic moniker, "Episode IV - A New Hope". My friends and I learned the meaning of true devotion. We would wait on line - a line that went all the way down and around the block - to see that movie.

Not once.
Not twice.

I saw it twelve times.

My cousin (friend and fellow SW devotee) and I would write each other often (by snail-mail, the only type then available, unless you wanted FedEx) from our respective boarding schools. In those letters, a couple of lines addressed how life away from home was going; the rest was devoted to lines from Star Wars.

The letters would go on for pages.

Flash forward thirty or so years. In the interim, Episodes V and VI came out, followed by Episodes I, II, and III (these last regarded by SW purists to be uncanonical).

Yoda's manner of speech is readily recognized, predicate complements leading the way:
"Your father he is."
"Gone is young Skywalker, consumed by Darth Vader."
"Only pain will you find."
"Surprised are you?"
"Failed have I."
"Judge me by my size do you?"
"Remember what you have learned. Save you it can."

In their struggle in the Force, Masters Yoda, Windu, Kwaigon, Obi-Wan, and Darths Mogg, Sithius (good second declension Latinate ending) and Vader, bring to the fore the critical role that choice plays in a person's life: it will shape your destiny.

As a linguist and Classicist, I particularly appreciate that Yoda's speech patterns raise our awareness of word order, of syntax, of how language establishes meaning. Our effort to understand him is itself a linguistic exercise.

"If once down the path to the Dark Side you start, forever will it hold you."
"Anger, fear, hatred - the Dark Side are these."

Now in 2007 there has emerged another die-hard, ardent Star Wars following.
These are kids who saw all the Star Wars movies, maybe even in Episode I to VI order. They probably own the dvds and listen to the theme music on i-pods. As for us seasoned Star Warriors, we saw IV through VI first. Then, if we could get over our contempt - and ourselves - Episodes I through III. Or not.

I have seen them all.

That Yoda is one heck of a teacher.
Anyone could learn from him.
"Do. Or do not. There is no try."

So what?
This is what.

In the building blocks of chapter 7 of my Latin text, the final set of sentences translate as follows:

"The skill of the boy conquers his anger."
"The skill of the boy is conquered by anger."
"The boy's anger is conquered by skill."
"They are conquered by the the boy's skill and anger."
"Skill and anger are conquered by the boy."

These sentences could qualify as absurd.
A context would be helpful.
Student, help thyself.
This year, my seventh grade students did.

And what might their context of choice be?

Star Wars

Of course.

Yoda, Master of Jedi Masters, whose favorite metaphor for a padawan's progression in the Force is Path or Road.
Anakin Skywalker, possessed of skill and anger in massive measure.
His was a journey from the Dark Side into Light.
Even the Emperor, Sith though he be, uses similar language:

"I feel your anger. Good. Gooood. I am unarmed. Go ahead. Take your light sabre. Strike me down, and your journey to the Dark Side will be complete."

The Road.
An apt metaphor.
Star Wars.
An unexpected context.
An old and welcome friend.

Even if one seventh grader does think that he's one of the Sand People.

And that I'm the Emperor.

"Five score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand today, signed the Emancipation Proclamation. This momentous decree came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of Negro slaves who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of their captivity."
Dr. Martin Luther King, jr.
August 28, 1963

The great civil rights leader, the great student of the human condition, spoke these words in that awesome, brilliantly crafted linguistic/political/ cultural/racial/societal/literary tour de force he gave in 1963 at the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C. A master of powerful language, his words both riveting and moving. The breadth of knowledge and depth of understanding that eminate from his speech, the control of language, the myriad allusions to biblical, historical, literary figures and pieces all come together to take the reader's (now, listener's once upon a time) breath away. King was a master communicator, a uniter, not a divider, always seeking the common ground: articulate, eloquent, passionate, measured.

So, too, was Lincoln - the man, not the memorial.

A hundred years before Martin Luther King, jr. spoke his words, Abraham Lincoln, perhaps the greatest president the United States has ever had, gave his second inaugural address:

"On the occasion corresponding to this four years ago all thoughts were anxiously directed to an impending civil war. All dreaded it, all sought to avert it. While the inaugural address was being delivered from this place, devoted altogether to saving the Union without war, insurgent agents were in the city seeking to destroy it without war—seeking to dissolve the Union and divide effects by negotiation. Both parties deprecated war, but one of them would make war rather than let the nation survive, and the other would accept war rather than let it perish, and the war came." - Abraham Lincoln
March 4, 1865

The Preacher.
The President.

Avatars of the power of the word.

No wonder they killed them.

Don McLean, singer and song writer of that rock classic American Pie, has a poignant set of lyrics about Vincent van Gogh, the profoundly gifted, profoundly troubled artist, that could apply to both these men:

"Now I think I know what you tried to say to me,
How you suffered for your sanity,
How you tried to set them free.
They would not listen, they're not listening still.
Perhaps they never will...

"But I could have told you, Vincent, this world was never meant for one as beautiful as you."

In place of "Vincent" write "Abe".
Or "Martin."

My early twenties were the most difficult years of my life. I was fresh out of college. I had no direction, no desire to do much of anything. Everything I did, thought, wrote, saw, or heard had a pointlessness that I could neither get beyond nor ignore. I had originally thought that I wanted to become a professor of Religion. I went to Harvard Divinity School right after college. It was the natural, knee-jerk thing to do, as I had been going to school for sixteen years straight.

It became apparent that Div school wasn't going to work. I became ensorcelled by Greek and Latin, but I found at Harvard that the shepherds had become too much like the sheep. The sheep didn't care much about language mastery, just about "religion." It didn't matter that the texts upon which that religion was based were written in those languages.

I spent a year at the Div school, then withdrew. I applied to be a special student at the Yard in Classics, but was summarily rejected. No surprise, really. The true shock came when I was told by the secretary of the head of Harvard's Classics department - the secretary, mind you, not even the head, himself - that it was a bit late and I was a tad old to be getting into Classics. At another time and place, I would have told her what I thought of both the assessment and its author. But it wasn't.

Yeah, I was "too old".
An ancient 22.
Over the hill, but not picking up speed.

As an aside, St. Ignatius Loyola didn't start studying Latin until he was 33. All the lowly Loyola did was to found the Society of Jesus and play a key role in the Catholic Counter Reformation.

(I did eventually get my ph.d. at the University of Pennsylvania.
At the tender age of 34.)

It was just as well. I was riding on intellectual empty. I had been going to school for too long: grade school, high school, college, grad school.

Seventeen years straight.
It was definitely time for a break.

I still wasn't listening.

I began a Classics M.A. at Boston College. Prof. Emily Vermeule was good enough to recommend me for a spot there. But it was not to be.
A month into the term, I'd had it.
I took that euphemistically named "leave of absence" from the program at B.C.

I remember walking down Massachusetts Avenue in Allston where I was living, thinking, My God, what have I done? I might never go back to academia again.

It was terrifying.
It was the right thing to do.
I had to do something else.
Something completely...Other.

So I did.

I volunteered for the Boston Chapter of NOW, and then worked for Carla Johnston, the only woman who was running for Congress in the 8th congressional district. Tip O'Neill was finally stepping down.

Alas, Carla didn't win.
She didn't even have a prayer.
How could she?
There was a Kennedy in the race, even if his ego and his understanding of the world were inversely proportionate to one another - heavy on the ego.

As I said, I was living in Boston, specifically in Allston.
And it was here that I learned an amazing lesson.
From a plant.

My apartment was pretty nice, aside from (or next to) the roaches. With it came a plant which the previous owner had thoughtfully left for me. Or had simply forgotten.

I had no idea what to do with a plant.
I'd never really had one.
Still, I couldn't bring myself to throw it out.
So I just let it sit there, a soon to be no longer living memorial to my directionless existence.
The plant's leaves died, and so, seemingly, did it.
I could relate.

Then one day, I decided, What the heck, I'll water the plant.
Yes, it needed it. But I think I needed it more.
And besides, I had nothing to lose.
And everything.

A few days went by, a week, a month.
I kept up my daily ministrations.
I even got a spray bottle so I could keep its leaves moist.
And the plant - an English Ivy, I think - came back to life.
And began to grow.
And grow. And grow.

When I finally left Boston for my first teaching job, the plant was lush, its vines tumbling over the sides of its pot to the floor seven feet below, an emerald cascade.

I had never felt such an enormous sense of accomplishment.
But it was more than that.
I myself was pivotal in the turn around of this plant's life.
I mattered.

And in the simple act of giving this living thing the chance to grow, I had done the same thing for myself.

I did not then fathom the plant's gift to me. Nor did I see how great a role it played in my quest for the meaning of meaning. I didn't even know I was on a quest.

That plant may not have been key in my becoming a teacher. But it was instrumental in my staying one.

As I said. I didn't know then.
Now I do.

"Give and thou shalt receive."