We Can't Breathe. But One Day We Will.

Our generation was born into a world of promise. We were told we inherited the world. Anything we wanted could be ours. From the moment we were dragged into the light and we breathed our first, we were told we can be whatever we wanted. We were giddy in our excitement, blinded by our innocence.

We could breathe.

We were taught about the birth of our freedoms and the rise of our nation. Told of the promises of our founding fathers, and the freedom we won from their struggle. We inherited the dreams of great men, dripping with the promise of a better world. A world which we were going to enjoy.

We could breathe.

We watched, scared and unsure, as the towers fell. We cried with our nation as we watched our world shift before our eyes. Watched our President cry on live television as he told us that the world isn't as perfect as we were promised. We licked our wounds and watched as politicians and diplomats tried to make sense of the terrors lurking in the shadows.

We began to choke.

We watched as so many innocent lives were taken, far too soon. High school students at Columbine. College Students at Virginia Tech. Children at Sandy Hook. Shocked. Horrified. How? Why? Who could answer these questions? We wanted to start a dialogue. We wanted to keep this from happening again. We were told we were too young. Our views too ideal. How could we possibly have a solution when better men and women have tried?

We sputter and wheeze.

We watched as our government attacked itself. Content to do nothing, they spend their time attacking each other and fighting for control of a government that is crippled by its own design. We demand attention, we demand results. Again, we are told to keep our heads down. Trust the system. This is how the world works. Let it run its course. O Tempora! O Mores!

Our words catch in our throats.

A man rises. He acknowledges us and the power of our generation. Recognizes the potential we have for true impact on the world. He promises us hope. He promises change. Change we can participate in.

We were given a voice.

We called for equality. We watched as our friends and countrymen were refused the same rights and privileges that we enjoy, simply because of the life they lead. Men and women were treated like less than citizens because of who they loved. We fought for them. We joined in rallies and protests. We raised our voices, and began to finally see the system start to listen. We were making progress.

The pressure began to lift.

Then we fell. We watched as the justice system began to fail.

We couldn't breathe.

We had been the generation promised the dream of the great Martin Luther King Jr. We fought to keep the dialogue going. We wanted change. But now the justice system failed us. Men were robbed of justice because of racial tensions. Men were killed in the streets, filmed by bystanders, with no justice offered.

We can't breathe.

Why? How?

We can't breathe.

Who can answer these questions?

We can't breathe.

Where was the world we were promised? Where are the freedoms we were told we had? Where is the justice? The understanding? The change?!

We can't breathe.

This isn't the end, my friends. Our generation has witnessed so much. We have shed so many tears. We have stood, shell-shocked by reality, and watched as that new reality sunk in. But change is coming. We can't trust others to just give us that change. We need to start it ourselves.

We will breathe again.

Our generation must start the process. Now is the time for anger, yes. But it is also the time for action. Pay attention to the facts. Don't be led by the media or by partisan politics. Educate yourselves. Ask questions. Strive, every day, to see the change happen in this world.

We will breathe again.

One day, our generation will be in control of the nation. It is already starting. The greatest source of social change is in you and me, together. Let us join our voices. Press on. Bring the dream from the ether into reality. Charge forward with that dream, with our ideals on a brazen banner. We will see a better tomorrow. It starts today.

We. Will. Breathe. Again.

"Quid enim sum?" or "How Cicero Reached through Time and Gave me a Swift Kick in the Rear"

As many of you know, the end of September means that it is officially the season for Graduate School applications. I've applied to over 25 schools in my years as a student, receiving only two "Yes" letters, and 23 "We regret to inform you..." messages. This whole summer has led up to this round of applications and I'm polishing my tap shoes for my last dance.

It looks something like this...

As I sat down to send emails and polish my statements, I began to struggle. I couldn't get my mind focused. I would put it off, using my teaching materials as an excuse. I was too busy. I'll get to it. I've done this before. Forcing it could ruin my chances, right?

Although it just might amuse them

I'm now a month into the process, and I've not finished anything. In fact, and I'm not ashamed to admit it, I've sunk pretty low emotionally when considering it. My goal has always been to get my Ph.D. Getting my acceptance to Brandeis for my M.A. was the best feeling in the world, but it was just one shining pebble on the shores of the Nile (when you get that pun, trust me it'll be worth it). 

If Grad Schools sent me The Nile in a letter, I wouldn't complain though

My last round of applications was the toughest. I had just finished my thesis with shining colors (something which has become my proudest accomplishment), presented at the first Classics conference at Brandeis, and I was watching all of my peers receive their well-deserved Yes's. But there I was, watching the last threads of hope for that round get cut. It's not an easy thing hearing No, even for someone who has heard it so many times.

"Try again next year, we've got tons more denial letters to use up. Would be a shame to throw them out"

When the last denial finally came in from Hopkins, I wasn't angry, I was just scared. When I had my first complete round of denial, I had the safety net of an extra year at PSU to fall back on. This was much less safe. What I was entering was a year cut off from school, which would make my next round of applications more challenging. How would I explain a year off? What am I qualified to do? How the hell am I going to afford my life? Could I convince the student loan people that I was dead?

Even if they caught me, I'd get an awful lot of reading done in jail

Now, I'm here, still in exile from academia, but preparing to fight for my chance to get back. I just had to find a way out of my funk. The answer, true to form, came to me from the pen (more like stylus) of Marcus Tullius Cicero. On weekends I work nights at a Holiday Inn, running the night audit and manning the desk, which gives me ample free time for catching up on my classwork and, of course, reading. Last night I was skimming through my copy of Cicero's Letters to Atticus and found the 15 or so letters he wrote during his exile from Rome. If you know Cicero, or if you've heard me talk about him at all, you know that Cicero reached his lowest point in his career when he was chased from Rome by a political rival, a man he referred to as "Pretty Boy".

His name wasn't Clodius Pulcher for shits and giggles.

Cicero started his exile as noble as he possibly could. After all, he was the glue that held the Republic together. Surely Rome would rise up and demand his return, if only he waited long enough. The issue wasn't fixed quickly though, which made him begin to write to Atticus about the pain of losing his political position and the honors he had worked so hard to collect. The longer the exile, the more he slipped into depression. It was in this gradual descent into sadness that Cicero struck a chord with me. In ad Att. III.15, Cicero appears rattled and his famous control of language is gone. What we're left with is one of the best examples of Cicero's inner thoughts. 

                      Time, far from relieving this heartache, actually increases it. Other hurts 

                      grow less acute as they grow older, this cannot but increase from day to day

                      from the sense of present misery and the recollection of the life that is past. 

                     I mourn the loss not only of the things and persons that were mine, but of my

                     very self. What am I now? 

That last line hit me hard. Quid enim sum? "What am I now?" Cicero drops the royal we ("nos") and emphasizes that this is him. What is Cicero without Rome? I hadn't thought about it before, but this is the heart of why I've been struggling with this year. I've been a student for so long, and I was pretty good at it. What am I without school? What am I now? Cicero's depression was such that he didn't see any solution to his problem, in fact he eventually gives up completely. As a historian, I mark this moment as his lowest point. His letters get shorter and shorter, and eventually he writes to Atticus that he is "utterly destroyed" and has come to terms with his fate. 

This is what he looked like when he was happy.

Then, all of a sudden, the next letter breaks the sadness. He's back in Rome and telling Atticus all about his triumphant return home. It's such a sudden break in the narrative that it throws me every time. Cicero rebounded. He reached rock bottom (in Thessalonika, no less!), thrown down from his nobility and stripped of everything possible, but he comes back. He returns to Rome and he never mentions his depression again (except when it was politically useful, which was almost constantly). His return marks a second life for him, a return to his highest status and a renewal of his energy. 

And the birth of revolutionary Ad Campaigns

Now, I don't want to make it sound like I consider this "gap year" to be as traumatic as Roman Exile, but seeing him at his lowest, and knowing that he was on the brink of a second wind, Cicero reached out to me. Not with his hand. With his foot. He gave me the swift kick to the rear that I needed. 

This one was pro bono

I may be out of school, but I've got a lot going for me this round. My thesis will be a great writing sample, I'm actually a Professor, and I know exactly what I want to do my doctoral research on. This may not be my lowest point, but it certainly isn't my highest. These applications will get finished, I will get through the wait, and I am going to be accepted this round. 

Sing it, Ladies

January: Robert Frost (I know, I know, I'm way late on this)

Before I solidified my list of poets, I always wanted to start with Robert Frost. This was due mainly to the fact that his name just felt like "January". Before I get into the poems, let's have a look at the man with the pen and the mind to use it.

 Robert Lee Frost

 1874-1963

 Robert Frost was an American poet that was most famous for his rustic and rural poems written in "refreshing" American colloquial speech. Because, you know, the word "colloquial" is still colloquial American English. Frost is most commonly associated with rural scenes in New England, so imagine my surprise when I found out that Frost was born in San Francisco. He moved to Massachusetts after his father's death and New England became his base. 

New England: The first storm is the pretty one. The others were adopted

Before I started this month's poetry, I already knew of three of Frost's poems. Two of them, Fire and Ice and Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, I'll get to in my next blog post (I promise it will be soon) because they are two of my all-time favorite poems, but the third is a poem that I bet you already know. The Road Not Taken has become a staple in the American culture. How many times have you heard it quoted (and often misquoted) on television, in movies, or, my personal favorite cliche, at graduations? 

 Beats the Hell out of this Classic. Am I right?

The first time I heard this poem, I was in elementary school and my teacher was reading from a children's book. I don't remember my reaction, and that's a terrible shame. Poems have many aspects that add to their impact, from their aesthetic appeal to the wordplay, but arguably the most powerful aspect is the impact it has on the audience. The best part about this is that the impact changes as you change. Heraclitus, an ancient Greek philosopher, once said "You cannot step twice in the same stream", and in this vein I would argue that you can't read the same poem twice. I wish I could remember how I reacted that first time I heard this poem, even if it was a simple "I liked it". It would give me a better grasp of where I came from, and how far I've come. I do remember my reaction during high school, and it wasn't good. I, like many other high school kids, thought that by disliking the classics I would gain academic cred. Now please bear in mind, this was several years before the advent of the American "Hipster Culture", which made me a Nerd and far from cool.

Although I did wear trashbag Penguin suits before they were cool.

I think I've grown quite a bit from that cynical nerd kid and I think it's time to look at my reaction to the poem once more. Feel free to post your comments with your own reactions to this poem as well. That's the second most important aspect of poetry: the conversation they ignite. Some of the best conversations I've ever had involved differing views on poems and their meanings. Since reading them is such a personal experience, the more people involved in the discussion brings more facets to the poem's impact. Now that I've waxed academic on my views on poetry, let's have a look at the first poem:

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

 

Like I said earlier, this is possibly the most over-quoted poem for graduations and big moments in life, yet I don't think people have really looked into it. Most of the people I know who have quoted it would be surprised to know the title. In fact, I recently heard a speaker at a graduation refer to it as "Robert Frost's The Road Less Traveled". When you see how it is often quoted, usually with only the last two lines or the final stanza, it's totally understandable to think that the focus of the poem is on the path he took and how he was one of the few who chose it. We think of him blazing a new path, breaking from the crowds, leaving the sheep to follow each other down that other, more beaten track. Yet it's not the case. The title is "The Road Not Taken". The narrator isn't a man at a crossroads, trying to decide which path to take. No, he's a man who has gone down that path and chosen many others, and now he's reflecting on his choice. The third stanza is possibly my favorite:

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back. 

If you know me, you know that I have a terrible issue with making decisions. If I had to choose between making decisions or having them made for me, I'd give up and take a nap. Frost plays off something like nostalgia. It's not regret that he feels, except the regret that he might never get a chance to take the road not traveled. I think this is the crux of this poem. Here Frost stops thinking about the choice he didn't make, and instead starts to realize that it wasn't the choice he made, but the ones he left behind that shaped him. The choice may have seemed trivial, but like he says at the end of the poem, it was that choice that made all the difference. 

 

I should have gone with sprinkles...

The poem is dedicated to the road he didn't take. How does that change the quotes we've all heard? Instead of empowering people to blaze new paths and not follow the herd, it forces the reader to appreciate the choices that they've made, and the ones that they're going to make. This realization was what took this poem out of cliche for me. Life is a series of choices, a series of paths diverging in a yellow wood. Its natural to look back and wonder what if, but Frost really captures the fact that where we are today is a direct result of not only the paths we chose, but also those that we set aside, with a hope that we may return some day.

A Year of Poetry. Now that's a Resolution!

This year I wanted to make my resolution one that I could actually carry out (Hershey's was relieved to hear I wasn't going to give up chocolate again), but also one that would make me a better person. Sure, I could make the "lose weight" resolution, but that's a life goal, not just a yearly one.

   

 My Real Life Partner

This year, however, I chose to take the path less traveled by (pun intended). Being a student of the humanities, I have spent hours reading and studying "the classics", but I haven't had the time to spend reading the works of more modern, and relatively younger, authors. 

 

 The Picture of Youth

Instead of Virgil and Catullus, I'm going to be working my way through the poetry of more recent authors. I've set up a list of poets by month, so that I can give each poet enough time so as not to offend them, although I am afraid I'll end up offending at least one of them.

Lookin' at You, Ms. Dickinson

And so it shall begin. I'm not sure how it will end, or even where I'll stand when December comes around, but I hope that this blog and my experience with these great writers will inspire both me and you to read more of "the classics" and develop a stronger appreciation for those who came before us. The line-up of poets stands as:

                    January             Robert Frost

                    February          Maya Angelou

                    March              Oscar Wilde

                    April                 T.S. Eliot

                    May                  e e cummings

                    June                  Robert Browning

                    July                   John Keats

                    August              Rudyard Kipling

                    September        Alfred, Lord Tennyson

                    October            Edgar Allan Poe

                    November        Emily Dickinson

                    December         Walt Whitman

Feel free to give me feedback on the list! I'm willing to shift these around, but obviously I cannot do that if the month has already passed. I am fully aware of the large number of great poets that I'm leaving off of this list, but these are the ones that have caught my attention in the past. Perhaps this will be my year with Mr. Keating and I'll end it by standing on a desk and screaming "Oh Captain my Captain!" with tears in my eyes, or I'll stand alone and fall on my ass.

                        The Rest of the Class:

            "Oh Captain My Captain!"

                        Me:

"Oh Captain My F#&*ing GOD!"

This may be a great adventure which I hope to share with all of you, or it could end up being a solitary journey, but, regardless, no knowledge is useless. By the end of this year, I will have spent time with 12 of the greatest minds of our ancestors and stolen a peek into their minds. There's no way that I can come out unchanged, but I'm willing and ready for this challenge.

And so here we are, friends, at the crossroads. We're in the yellow woods and we have a choice to make. I'm going down the path less traveled by, and I'm inviting you along. I'll bring the wine.

Wine. That makes all the difference.