Imagine an arch. Not just any arch, this is a Roman triumphal arch. It can be a single arch, or perhaps a more elaborate triple arch, or even (if you’re feeling bold) a quadrifrons arch spanning the intersection of two bustling streets. Now add to this arch all the trimmings required: sturdy columns projecting from the main body; sculptural decoration on the bottom, the top, the inside, and wherever else it might be required (all original, none of that “borrow and re-sculpt” crap); and a gargantuan inscription at the top announcing your architectural achievement to the world.
Now jump forward several hundred years. You are long deceased, your civilization has crumbled, and your arch has found itself in a state of incredible disrepair. Vegetation has begun to creep up the side of the arch, and vines wind around the columns and snake through the sculpture like some kind of vegetable giant squid. Birds have made their homes in the various niches and holes (newly developed due to the invasion of flora). The deepest cut sculptures have fallen off, and the figures have been rubbed down beyond recognition. The vines and plants now growing free have begun to dig and open up cracks running the length and breadth of the structure, now threatening to succumb to Mother Nature and disintegrate.
But all is not lost. A team of archaeologists has noticed the rapid deterioration of your arch, and has taken it upon themselves to restore and repair your creation to its original glory. They face many questions from skeptics about the value of spending money on such a “useless” project. In reply, they eloquently relate the arch’s historical significance and artistic value: It is a magnificent achievement of our fellow man, so let us at the very least use this arch to celebrate the potential of humankind. Eventually, they are awarded some money to begin. First, they cleared the concrete of plant material, and then set to work patching up the cracks, clearly marking what was newly supporting the old. After this work was completed, professional restorers went to town on the sculpture, filling out the figures and replacing broken limbs (again done through tasteful anastolisis). When it is all done, the restored arch stands proud once again, surrounded by admiring tourists who gasp and gape at the splendor, craftsmanship, and scale, unaware of the previous state of disrepair and the work put into the restoration. This arch is like my experience on the Classics Semester Abroad (bear with me, this will make sense soon).
Let us start from the beginning, as all good stories are wont. Just as an architect would have carefully planned, assembled materials, measured, double and triple checked his measurements, and set out every little detail before beginning work, I spent the weeks preceding this trip with great anticipation, carefully sorting the necessary books, articles, clothes, etc. I attempted to plan for every contingency and every detail. I knew the frame of the trip and the plan, but I had no way of knowing how the “plan” would manifest itself on the day-to-day. I could rattle off necessary dates, places, books, articles, and site names, but this superficial knowledge, like our architect’s theoretical plan for his arch, was yet to be filled in with the hands on experience.
The trip began, and very quickly I began to grasp what I had gotten myself into, and I loved it. Constant adaptation was the rule (16-hour train ride? No problem). As we laid the historical and archaeological foundation (I’m committed to this building metaphor) for our trip in London and Egypt, I gained perspective on what we would need to give mentally, physically, and emotionally. Perhaps the most important lesson was that one can never plan for every contingency, and therefore quick thinking, a calm attitude, and optimism would soon become my most valuable tools. Not only have these skills served to get me un-lost in an unfamiliar city on this trip, but they will also be important in the future, whether used to effectively lead a classroom, or in any other leadership position. One thing this trip has taught me is this: I am perfectly comfortable handling the unpredictable arena of a high-school classroom.
Now the trip was in full swing. We knew the expectations, and we settled into a routine (of sorts) by the time we got to Greece and Turkey (if you want the arch, now the arch fully built and withstanding the test of time, pristine and glorious). With a few exceptions (Delphi, road to Sparta), the trip through Greece and Turkey was more a test of endurance than adaptability, as I had already settled into the mindset of expecting anything that might come our way. I think one thing I gained from this time was an increased love of the natural world, due to our time spent climbing ancient structures and mountains, and playing ultimate Frisbee wherever possible. I have never seen such beautiful, severe, powerful country, and it helped alter my perspective. As important as I think I am to this world, and as vital to my existence I may think one more A may be, the truth is that I am just one small part of a larger world, and my value as a person may be better expressed in other ways, which cannot be measured by As and Bs.
The trip caught up with me, however, shortly after we got to Rome. Just as time and nature wear away at our steadfast arch, fatigue and the busy schedule left me feeling like a 1960s Ford with four flat tires. From this period, I was certainly reminded that in every endeavor (CSA, job, etc.) there are low points. But I came to a point when I realized that I could use my state of low emotional and physical energy in a useful manner: for reflection and self-assessment. There is great value for accurate self-assessment in any profession, but I think it will be especially valuable in teaching, where it will be detrimental, not only to myself, but also to my students, if I cannot recognize when and why I become emotionally and physically empty.
So what was I to do at this point? My solution: rest, and think positively. I made myself find something I enjoyed for a few days until I crawled out of my funk. Especially after Easter Break, when I was able to recover some energy (i.e. restore the cracks in the metaphorical arch), I felt almost new again. I could not lie about how I had been feeling up to that point, but that was good; being honest with why I felt bad and how I got to that point was a valuable tool in the last month of the trip, in that I was able to recognize the warning signs before it was too late.
I do not want to beat a dead horse with this arch metaphor, so let me sum up what I’m trying to say through a restored triumphal arch. I began this trip with a lot of energy, and I thought I could plan out every detail. However, I discovered how to adapt as I encountered unpredictable complications. Eventually, I began to wear down, but found a way to build myself up and make our time valuable when I was feeling otherwise. Now at the end, this trip has become something I never imagined it could have been, just as magnificent but different. Now, I can talk to people about the triumphs and setbacks, and emphatically point to the lessons I’ve gleaned as a result. I have learned much from this intense study of Classics, but please note: those lessons I have mentioned here are not particularly Classics specific. The skills I have gained and improved upon are more valuable than dates and allusions, because they will allow me to more effectively comprehend and maneuver through this world, no matter what I am doing in two, ten, or twenty years. And although some of us will never have anything to do with Augustus, Trajan, Pericles or Solon after this trip, I think this is the main lesson that any of us can get out of a study of Classics: how to think, perceive, understand, and adapt to the world in which we live.
Ciao!
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