Via Facilis

In the Fall of 2000-1, I returned to the school where I had taught from 1987-90.
The good news: Latin was still alive.
The bad news: It wasn't well.

The text I had put in place ten years before was still there.
But I no longer found it effective.

My initial, grandiose assessment was that the text should have been a breeze to understand. But my students did not come to the same conclusion. Time after time they wouldn't just get a translation wrong; they would merely take the basic translations of vocabulary items and put them side by side. This wasn't even a case of mangled permutations.

They had the vocabulary, but no idea what to do with it.
Their recognition of morphology was questionable, at best.
Their grasp of syntax was virtually nil (not even "nihil").
No wonder they found the text confusing.

Nonetheless, my denial persevered.

"How can they not get it?" I asked myself.
Myself was silent for a moment. Then it began to rant.
"The Latin of this book is simplistic. How could you possibly make it any simpler? Why should you even have to?"

Ranting came and went.
Reality set in.

"Should" was not the issue.

If I wanted my students to learn how to read with any understanding, with depth and breadth, the first thing I had to junk was "Should."

That was the first step.
And the most critical.

More in the next post.

Continuing from the last post,

So.
Reality had set in.
"Should" had been shown the door.
Or had I shown myself the door and left "Should" behind?

I had already begun to write my own exercises. But they were still missing the mark. I persisted in making erroneous fundamental assumptions, chief of which was that the students could read Latin even if they only knew vocabulary and their grasp on morphology was tenuous.

I could not state with any conviction that my students understood what they were reading.

The patient was hemorrhaging, not simply bleeding.

What to do?

Sometimes the best thing is:
--Go back to the beginning.
--Take the reading passages provided in the text.
--Break them down into sentences.
--Break them down into phrases.
--Break them down into fragments.
--Break them down,
--Break them down again.
--Break them down once more.

Okay.
And then...what?

Rebuild them?
I guess I could do it that way...

Wait. It can't be. That's too easy. That's ridiculously simple.
(Besides, I didn't learn it that way....)
--Build them back up?
--Build them back up!

Start with....
What?

The verb.

I have had epiphanies before. But none like this. It was a revelation that bowled me over with its simplicity.

The solution was so obvious, it couldn't be seen.

Start with the bare essentials of a Latin sentence.
--Then add.
--Then add to that.
--Then add to that.
--And so on.

The fundamental assumption I had been making was that the students knew basically how to read a Latin sentence. They didn't. They'd been asked to break down sentences and paragraphs. But they had no real awareness of how the pieces fit together in the first place. Thus when they broke down the sentences, their understanding of the sentences fell apart.

You build a building from the ground up, not from the top down.
This holds with the construction of the Latin sentence as well.

When I finally earned my Ph.D, a person stylizing himself as a citizen of the "Real World" (I still haven't figured out where, or what, the "Real World" is; then again, I'm a Classicist, not a philosopher), asked me what seems to be the inevitable, inane, insipid question for occasions of this sort:

"So what are you going to do with that?"
"I think I'll put it on my wall," was my blithe response.

I'd fielded that question so many times before that I had come to a point where I either had to skilfully craft a pithy reply, or run the risk of developing an insecurity complex. I opted for the former, finding it more entertaining (mentally healthier, too) than the latter.

"Put it on my wall" was also more accurate, and more comprehensible, than "I don't know." As it was, "I don't know" sprung from my failure to see the point of the question, not from a cluelessness on my part as to my professional destination (more later on "destination" vs. "journey"). Not that anyone claiming to be from the "Real World" had either a hope or concern of grasping that.

In the context of The Epiphany, however, "What are you going to do with that?" is not just a question. It's the question.

After all, once you've had an Epiphany, what do you do? Sign up for Epiphany Class? See a Revelation Specialist? Buy yourself a copy of Epiphanies for Dummies?

"Live into the moment."
A favorite quote of a friend of mine.
And a clear starting point.

In the wake of the epiphany comes a powerful, creative, wild force that has its well-spring, its epicenter, in your own understanding. It is a force terrifying and exhilerating, breath-taking and resuscitating, mind-numbing and mind-opening, deadly and revitalizing.

"Catharsis" only begins to get at its essence. This force doesn't simply bring your understanding back to life. It causes you to reconsider, rethink, recalibrate, restructure, rebuild everything you thought you knew, everything you thought you understood.

It is up to you to harness this power.
You're the only one who can.

As for how I harnessed the power of my Epiphany's Wake, my next post will tell.
Part of the answer is right in front of you.

I never knew that Epiphany even had a Wake.

Then I began writing this blog.

So there I was. Smack dab in the stormy wake of epiphany (Wake Epiphany? One of the Great Wakes, I guess). I had tapped into an endless supply of high grade energy. It was a sort I had never experienced: the more I expended, the more it replenished itself.

The energy jump-started my mind with low-gear intensity, thoughts bouncing off one another like affection-starved puppies. (Low-gear? Didn't he mean "high-gear"? No, he didn't. Why? Because low-gear is the where all the power is generated. The revs of an engine are exponentially higher in the low gear. And as we know, without low gear, there is no high gear.)

But Reality was still there.

How to bring that Epiphany to bear on my teaching? How to make it accessible to my 8th graders? To the rest of my students? Did I even have to?

I could still use the current 8th grade text, even if I didn't like it. It would serve as a vehicle for my new approach. For now, anyway. How long would "now" last? Indefinitely. Forever. It didn't really matter.

As it turned out, "now" lasted a week.

I wanted my 8th graders to have a strong grasp on syntax, vocabulary, morphology. Control of these would facilitate a deepening comprehension of Latin. Yet my difficulties with the current 8th grade text were:

1. the order of syntax presentation
2. the choice of vocabulary
3. the organization of the exercises
4. the fill-in-the-blank approach to morphology.

Not that I had crystalized and refined my thinking to that point yet. I hadn't. I was busy focusing my energy on the composition of building block exercises - the original material of the epiphany.

For all their simplicity, indeed precisely because of their simplicity, building blocks require a lot of thought. And although I had a basic understanding of how building blocks built, that was all I had. I felt like a toddler learning how to walk. I had the legs, knew that they would help me get around, but had no idea how to use more than the knees.

The vision was there, the method was lacking. In a previous post, I said that I would "start with the verb". When I think back to that time, when I revisit what (so I thought then) were just so many exercises and notes, I realize that I didn't actually do that. Not at first. That crucial refinement would come later.

The building blocks were a hit. The 8th graders took to this approach not unlike those proverbial fish.

It struck me as odd: this method was my invention. A very humbling feeling to know that you had hit upon an approach that opened up the language to anybody and everybody who had the desire to learn it. Still, I didn't do much more than write exercise after exercise, with thought pieces attached on how to understand additional pieces of syntax and morphology.

One day, late into the second trimester of my first year back at this school, my 8th grade students began to ask me when they could see my book.
"What book?"
"The one you're writing, Doc."
"I'm writing a book?"
"Uh, yahhh, you are." This last said with that somewhat mocking, quasi-Valley-girl tonality only a teen-ager - particularly an 8th grader - can fully empower.

Nonplussed, I went to my computer and opened the file.
And noticed that it was 59 pages long.
My students were right.
I was writing a book.

So much for my worry about how to make what I learned/was learning in my epiphany's wake accessible to my students. Kind of the 8s to point out that I already had.

That summer, I wrote the book.

And dedicated it to that 8th grade class.

Is this a good thing, or a bad thing?

I've been told recently that my Latin text (displayed to your right just ostentatiously enough along with a couple of samplings, q.v.) has no particular niche into which it nestles neat 'n nice.

Guilty as charged. It doesn't.

I wrote Via Facilis for my 7th, 8th, and 9th grade students.
Were 12-15 year olds my target learners?
Yes. And no.

I also teach graduate students at City University of New York in the Latin for Reading Knowledge program. Are they my target learners?
Yes. And no.

Who then could learn best from my text?
Anybody who wants to learn, or relearn, Latin.

What age group?
Anybody who wants to learn, or relearn, Latin.

Who is my target audience?
Anybody who wants to learn, or relearn, Latin.

(and Brutus is an honorable man)

What about the best and the brightest?
And they are...?
And the people who determine the identity of "the best and the brightest" are...?

(Rearing its head stage left, the Insidious Suggestion that only those who are most in touch with their mental processes should even hope to attempt so difficult an enterprise.)

All these beg the question:
Is Latin really that tough?

To which the response is:
Does it have to be?
Why?

And so:
To Niche or Not to Niche?
Not.

For a different perspective on what the publishing industry is missing by niche-ing, see my colleague Annette Kramer's learning lab. She's convinced - and is probably right - that although children's editors may have met virtual children, they never have met any actual ones.

I asked my colleague and good friend Bill Landau, Science teacher and department head extraordinaire, to jot down some of his recollections of that epiphany I had six years ago. I share here the result. "drg" refers to me.

"Not unusual that in our running conversation, drg would appear in the (any) doorway, and deliver some very thoughtful news on what “is” and what “isn’t.” A commonly threaded topic was what text was being used, how it was being used, who was using it, what its strengths and shortfalls were, and what so many had to say about text learning. Did the text become the program, that being the case, was there enough culture embedded in the text and program? Was there enough rich vocabulary? Were there enough allusions to major, classical written works? Occasionally, drg would, say – '(hardy) haaa - maybe I should write the text…maybe I should write my own text (for us).' As occasionally, perhaps more often, 'I WILL write my own text – I can do a better job of it, anyway…'

I am still privy to and pleased with updates from the good Dr…and….his students."

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."

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