Via Facilis

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."

"Good judgment comes from experience; experience comes from bad judgment."
Murphy's Law

"Mistakes are the only things you can truly call your own."
- Billy Joel

A dual mantra for all who teach and learn.

Mistakes are invaluable sources of learning for their makers.
No matter how embarrassing, or how humiliating, or how annoying.
Provided you heed their lesson.

Mistakes don't just happen. They are made. We make them.
You make them.
Students make them.
I make them.

Mistakes can be of (non-)fact, of (il)logic, of (non-)recognition, of (mis)understanding. Some are born of incomplete thinking, others of thinking too much. Whatever their ilk, mistakes remind us of our humanity. They can open the door to humility, and thence to deeper and broader thinking, learning, understanding.

Particularly potent is the realization that a problem, an idea, a concept was so obvious that you had never really thought about it.

And suddenly it comes into focus. The veil of self-hypnosis falls away.
You truly see for the first time. You recognize the existence of something. Now you can act on that recognition.

Here's a mistake that I made.
Fortunately, it taught me well.

The worst lecture I ever gave resulted in one of the best lessons I ever learned.
The lecture was on supplementary participles in Ancient Greek, a concept that had come to me quickly, completely, intuitively when I had learned the language.

In other words, it was a concept I had never given a second thought.
Or any thought.
Sure, I got it.
A car gets gasoline, too.
But does it understand it?
How like a car I was.

And so I ran into trouble.
Barreled into it headlong.

Not surprisingly, a number of the students had no comprehension of what I was talking about. They could not distinguish between the supplementary participle I was introducing to them and another class of verbal adjectives they had already met called circumstantial participles.

Circumstantial participles act as their own clauses. Supplementary participles at first glance may seem to have a similar function. But they don't. Some verbs in ancient Greek require the participial equivalent of a complementary infinitive to fully complete their sense. That counterpart is called a supplementary participle.

I couldn't explain it to them.
I was trapped in my own universe.
I told them "I don't understand what it is you don't understand."

A good line to use in appropriate situations.
This wasn't one of them.

Eventually, I got beyond my annoyance and chagrin at what I thought was the non-responsiveness of my students.
I realized my mistake. But how to classify it? Classification leads to understanding the source of the mistake.
Projection?
I had thought that the difference between the participles was patent.
It wasn't simply that I had not anticipated that the students would have any difficulty with supplementary participles. In fact, that possibility had not so much as crossed my mind.
So no, it wasn't really projection.
It was...what?

A nothingness.
A black hole.
A blind-spot.

These are the most difficult mistakes to recognize, precisely because they reveal themselves only indirectly. You cannot see a black hole, but you know it's there by the effect is has on the environment around it.

So now what?
Fix the problem.
Understand that your own leap of thought, your own intuition, can be the very thing that blocks you from clearly demonstrating a concept to your students.

They aren't the ones who don't get it.

You are.

As was I.

Fourteen months ago, I wrote the following entry for this blog regarding the years right after college graduation - years I would never want to experience again. Still.

"...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."

So, yes. Now I will say this, quoting my buddy Marcus Tullius Cicero (it's up to you readers to figure out how it applies to what follows):

"Qui ipse sibi sapiens prodesse non quit, nequiquam sapit."

Translation:

"The wise man who cannot help himself is wise in vain."

Now.
One thing I neglected to mention in that story:

I didn't just leave Boston.

I also left the plant.

That always bothered me.
The leaving the plant part, that is.
(Leaving Boston was easy.
I'm a Yankee fan, for goodness sake.)

Nagged at me.
Niggled.
Still does.

So why am I bringing this up now, you ask?
"Yes. That would be nice to know."
Fair enough.
Recently and with increasing vigor, I've been working with my education consultancy in the UK.
Coming over here every month, working with all the teachers for a week or so each time.

But somewhere in the back of my mind has been lurking the thought that I would teach again next year.

And that it would be in an independent school in the US.
And that it would be full time.
I had already spoken with various placement services, and had received phone calls regarding my availability.
I even went through an interview for a paternity leave position for April and May of this year.
It was okay.
Even good.
But it was lacking.
Or rather, I was preoccupied.
I could talk the talk, even walk the walk.
But my heart was nowhere in sight.

How could I just be a substitute teacher with this school when I have my own work to do?
My own teachers to work with?
I was offered that position.
I turned it down.
I couldn't in good conscience accept it.

cagse requires commitment.
Full Commitment.
From Everyone.
My executive director is the best there is.
But she can't do it herself.
My pro story teller is fabulous.
She can't do it all, either.
My head of Latin Programs is tremendous.
She can't do it by herself, either.

Then there are the teachers themselves.
They are hardworking, dedicated, enthusiastic.
Most of them are new to teaching.
Even those who aren't are new to my book.

'Everyone' includes me.

But I still wasn't quite getting it.
Recently, I had a phone call from the folks at Dalton School.
They wanted me to come in for an interview.
I said I would.
But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that I could not do it.
So I cancelled.
Why?
Because I already have a job.
I also removed my name from placement services regarding further consideration for the foreseeable future from any school.

Why?
Because I finally got it.

I (still) already have a job.

And what a job it is.

The work we are doing over here is nothing short of critical.
To the UK's national curriculum, certainly.
But even more to education itself.
We have here a new, powerful mechanism which will serve as a paradigm for real teaching and learning in the form of our Latin program.

cagse can be the cutting edge, not just on it.
Can shape vibrant, energetic, thoughtful teaching and learning for decades to come.

We are Compelling.

We put the R E A L back into L E A R N i n g.

But for cagse to take wing,
it is up to me.
And so, here I fly.

So why the reference to that earlier blog?

Haven't you figured it out yet?

Simple.

I've come back for my plant.

drg