Alex Coates

At this point, I am unsure where I will be in a few months. Will I be accepted into the graduate schools of my choice? Will I find myself landing on the path toward full-time academia? Will I be one of countless college graduates who look back and regret the major and degree they have chosen? Certainly I hope not. If that turns out to be the case, then so be it; I can adapt. I'll find something else to do. I'll teach high school or elementary school kids. I'm sure they'd be interested in Latin and Greek, right?

These questions all came crashing down upon me at the beginning of this year. While studying for my written comprehensive exams and I began to wonder what would happen if it all didn't work out the way I wanted. I began to feel powerless and hopeless; the life I had wanted seemed, for some reason unknown to me, to be slipping away or worse, seemed to be itself pointless. The despair I felt welling up was unbearable. It was hard to study.

The day the exams arrived, I was very somber, but very focused. I knew that, no matter what the future holds, I had to do my best now. I brushed up on my Cicero and thought about Callimachus and Catullus' response to him. I memorized the first seven lines of Homer's Iliad and I reviewed the timeline of authors I had on my wall in my head. And then I sat down at the computer and read the question. I remember joking to my friends that my question would probably be something like, "Latin and Greek Literature: Go." In a dawn of terrifying anxiety, I saw that I was not too far off. "No matter," I told myself. "It was time to focus."

After four hours, I had completed 12 pages of writing. I was relieved. And yet, that feeling of helplessness crept up out of the pit of my stomach once more. It said to me, "This all means nothing." But then, for the first time in weeks, I realized something that wasn't scary or petrifying. I looked at the words on the page and read through some of them. They had all come out of my head. The last four years of my hard work at Wabash College on a page. Nary a note or article citation was used. Everything was from my own mind. I smiled and breathed deeply in relief.

Every time I get discouraged about the post graduate possibilities for a Latin and Greek double major with a Classics minor, I try to recapture what I felt in that moment. No matter what happens, I've learned a lot and I can tell it to you if you ask. That fact makes me feel like my life is worth something; the degree I'm pursuing and near completing will be useful to me in some way or another, regardless of whether or not I make it in the academic field.

Posted by Sharon Metcalf at 08:31 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Homer Twigg

When Prof. Kubiak gave us the option to perform a section of Euripides' Hippolytos in lieu of a 25-page paper, we jumped on the opportunity. In the weeks preceding the performance, I began to get anxious about how the show would turn out. We carved out a section of the play to perform, assigned parts, and began preparing.

In the week prior to the performance, we started meeting and going over our material. Coates and Geggie both recite Greek better than I, and are Greek majors (whereas I am a Greek minor). If this performance was going to crash and burn, it would be from my doing. So I practiced a lot in front of my bathroom mirror and went over other recitations I had done from The Illiad and The Odyessy to get me in Greek-speaking-mode.

Two days before the play we began building our costumes based on tips we got from Prof. Day. I ended up using the most rudimentary of tools to achieve my effeminate nature: a mop head for a wig, a bedsheet for Chorus dress, and some boots (which are historically accurate!).

Minutes before our performance Geggie was still coaching me on meter, and my throat was in my chest. More people turned out than I expected, as our show was during lunch on finals week. But Detchon's International hall filled up, and it was show time. We matched our song and speech with dramatic effect so that people could figure out about what was being said (along with the translation), I butchered a couple of words, and it was done before it began. Even though people laughed at some parts, it was a very solemn part of the play. Perhaps our greatest strength was a reflection of this seriousness on stage, even if the crowd was having a good time.

I got a B in the class, and I'm happy with that. I worked hard to use my Greek skills in a way that was marginally more fun than writing a 25-page paper. I also showed the campus that day that Classics folk are an odd bunch, but resourceful enough to present ancient works of genius using nothing but a book, some janitorial supplies and old laundry.

Posted by Sharon Metcalf at 02:11 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)