Mary Beard felt her first sense of thaûma, the ancient Greek word for wonder, while staring at a piece of 4,000-year-old Egyptian cake. The now famous classicist, author, and Rick Steves of ancient civilizations, described this inception of intellectual curiosity occurring when she was about six years old. Because the exhibits at the British Museum in the early 60s weren’t child-friendly, her view of this ancient cake was strained and her mother had to lift her up. Then the guard did something unthinkable, something no museum guard would do today. He unlocked the case, picked up the 4,000 year-old-cake and held it out to Mary, just inches from her face.
I watched the online lecture live the other night from my bedroom, concluding that knitting in my pajamas was a better way to absorb Mary Beard’s delightful stories than actually sitting in her live audience in Chicago. Going to Chicago was my original plan, but the logistics weren’t in my favor. I had already met her in Philadelphia, when I attended a reading of Twelve Caesars: Images of Power from the Ancient World to the Modern. During the Q &A, I joked about people who give their children Roman names, telling her I’d met a clerk at Trader Joes, whose name tag read Nero. I struck up a conversation with him as he scanned my groceries, and yes, Nero was his actual name. I asked her what she thought of my niece and nephew’s names: Octavia and Quintus. She said she approved. At the book signing, she asked me what I do, and I told her I was a teacher. I thought of telling her I was a teacher at Girard College, but I thought that information might be inconsequential. Later, when reading her book and learning that Girard College was, for many years, the resting place of a famous ancient Roman sarcophagus in which our genocidal president, Andrew Jackson, refused to be buried, I regretted having been so reticent. Sure, I made her laugh with my Trader Joe’s story, but I adore Mary Beard so much, and I wished I could have kept talking to her.
I guess it’s probably for the best that I couldn’t make it to Chicago to meet Mary Beard a second time. I just would have fangirled all over her and embarrassed myself. I probably would have brought up the 100-year-old cookie, which is preserved in a glass case at the Girard College Museum. It’s called the Hum Mud, and one of my favorite assignments that I gave students when I was a teacher at Girard College was to personify and write from the perspective of one of the objects in the museum. Many students chose the Hum Mud, and the stories that came from their imaginations were just delightful.
I don’t know how much thaûma is being felt in my classroom, certainly not as much as I’d like. Today, I bribed one of my classes with candy so students would finish their research papers. I had followed orders about which candy to buy. Apparently, the time I bought Hi-Chews was seen as an abomination. “Fake Starburst” was the class verdict. I was also instructed to buy ring pops, but I could only find blow pops. Surprisingly, students were content with blow pops, even though they couldn’t put them on their fingers and fake propose to each other.
Mary Beard had some sharp criticism for conservators who want to blue surgical glove-ify everything and make history less accessible to young people. She remembered how that museum guard holding that 4,000-year-old piece of cake in front of her face ignited her with enough thaûma to last a lifetime.
According to Merriam-Webster, a thaumatourgós was a performer of wonders, or an acrobat. Although I can’t perform wonders, at least not in an acrobatic sense, I will pledge to experience more thaûma and to help bridge the accessibility to thaûma for others.
The kind people of Valparaiso waved and cheered from their garages as athletes sped past, my mom and I being two of those athletes . . . only we weren’t running. We weren’t even jogging. My mom conveniently “forgot” her running shoes, and since she was wearing her galoshes and wanted to stop frequently to photograph lawn decorations, we were at the end of the race. Yes, it was a little embarrassing. The van for shaming stragglers was right behind us. It was cold and windy and sporadically hailing, which was annoying, considering the title of the race was “Ringing in Spring.”
My mom waved back at the spectators, as if we were in a parade and the van lurching behind us was our parade float. She graciously accepted every compliment of “Great job!” or “You guys look great!” She even yelled back, “Thanks for noticing!”
Judging by the wide range of numbers on people’s race bibs and the relatively low turnout, a lot of people looked out their window that morning, observed the crummy weather, and decided to go back to sleep. I don’t blame them. The conditions were uncomfortable. My mom stopped at one point to shake a rock out of one of her galoshes, but it honestly could have been a hail stone.
The thought of pancakes kept me going. When we finally reached the end and received our lovely participation medals, we went out for our “breakfast of would-be champions (had my mom remembered her running shoes)”. For some primordial reason, I love restaurant booths. It just makes dining so much more enjoyable. It’s the modern equivalent of a cave, exuding a false sense of privacy and security. But I suppose the same way the first homo sapiens may have thought about their language echoing through the caves, I have to be more mindful of my voice carrying across a crowded restaurant. I have a TEACHER VOICE, and I’m used to projecting, so much so that even if I’m insulated in what I believe is some kind of soundproof restaurant booth, the other diners can still hear me.
With my mom sitting across from me, I launched into a critique of people who don’t seem to understand the difference between “controversial” and “uncomfortable,” about how Americans are too concerned with their own peace of mind. The best writing is achieved when the writer is uncomfortable, accessing unique and authentic material and deeply rooted emotions from some dark recess of the mind. The best learning is achieved when the learner is challenged and pushed out of their comfort zone. And the best art should challenge our perceptions, force us to think and view the world differently, even make us squirm a little.
I was trying to make sense of something that happened in class recently. Students expressed discomfort at a comparison I drew. My objective was to have students reflect on the power of imagery. I said that Marc Antony unveiling Caesar’s butchered body and pointing to all the stab wounds in order to rile up the crowd reminded me of Emmet Till’s open casket funeral and how it sparked the Civil Rights Movement. I wasn’t comparing the life of Caesar to the life of Emmet Till, nor was I comparing Marc Antony’s civil war to the Civil Rights Movement or minimizing black pain. I was simply saying that images are powerful and can spur us into action, whether that action be positive or negative. I showed students a brief PBS video to familiarize them with Emmet Till, careful to choose one that did not contain the horrific photo. I try to be mindful of the sensitivity levels in America, even if I think those sensitivity levels are over-the-top.
A couple students said they were afraid that these kinds of topics would embolden students with racist ideas to voice them, and therefore we should not discuss these dangerous topics in school. My response was that school is a place for learning and making mistakes and shaping the way we think. Just because we’re afraid someone will say something we don’t like doesn’t mean we should shut down uncomfortable topics all together. One student said certain topics did not belong in the classroom, topics such as Hitler and Tom Metzger. Maybe that student is right. Rather than talking about Hitler or Tom Metzger, the real focus should be on why these topics produce such an uncomfortable reaction in the first place.
I was told by one student that a previous teacher had them read “Night,” by Elie Wiesel, “a very controversial book.” That's when I realized students were conflating discomfort with controversy. I know I read “Night” when I was in high school. What year I can’t remember. I do know that I wasn't too concerned with my own discomfort.
Looking up from my pancakes, I noticed an older woman, exuding positive energy, standing at our booth. “I just want to say I agree with you whole-heartedly and to keep up the good work. I know it’s a hard time to be a teacher.”
I thanked her, and I was happy she stopped by our booth, even though I felt terribly self-conscious about the volume of my voice. After all, restaurant booths are supposed to be safe havens. If the waitress came by and gave everyone a side order of disturbing American history with every entrée, I’m pretty sure that restaurant would get bad reviews. I, however, am not a waitress. I don’t serve information. I don't walk around, asking students if they’d like a free refill of knowledge. Books, if they’re properly analyzed, should be grappled with, reckoned with, poked and prodded. Good writing is uncomfortable because good writing tells the truth.
If we can’t face our discomfort and analyze our reactions, how can we hope to get along with people who hold different views? How can we ever solve any problems? Right now the country is so segregated; we can live our whole lives in a bubble and never receive any pushback. Districts are so gerrymandered; politicians can do as they please and only answer to their own supporters. If we shut down conversations because they’re uncomfortable, are we on a dangerous trajectory of being no better than the Tennessee House GOP who expelled two black lawmakers for exercising their First Amendment Rights? And is it any coincidence that the expulsion came as a result of hard truths spoken about America’s myriad of mass shootings?
Discomfort should NOT be avoided, although I think if I sign up for another run and there happens to be a hailstorm on race day, I will go back to bed.
Conversations should also be age-appropriate. Recently, while having breakfast in a booth with my friend and her two children, her little boy showed skepticism for Pixar’s “Up.” He said it would be scientifically impossible for balloons to lift up a house and carry it to South America. I suggested that maybe if the house were light enough, balloons could lift it. Then I launched into a history lesson about Charles Lindbergh and how he made the Spirit of St. Louis as light as possible so he could complete the first transatlantic flight without crashing. He even cut the edges off his maps. So maybe Mr. Fredrickson was a bit like Charles Lindbergh.
Pretty soon, a nice Hoosier lady appeared at our booth. “Thank you for the history lesson. I didn’t know all that stuff about Charles Lindbergh!”
“You’re welcome, “ I said, even though I was once again self-conscious about my booming voice. I could have continued the history lesson to include bits about Lindbergh being a Nazi sympathizer or his many extramarital affairs, but that would have made our morning uncomfortable. And restaurant booths, unlike challenging learning environments, should always be comfortable.
I know people are sometimes pronounced dead and then they come back around. Having some sideshow sensibilities, I’m often drawn to things creepy and demented. Take Coraline, for example. Or Tom Waits. I’m fascinated by dreams and cults and near-death experiences. I read a wonderful memoir by Maggie O’Farrell, titled, “I am, I am, I am: Seventeen Brushes with Death.” Well, apparently, I was so caught up in what it would be like to die and come back to life, I wasn’t even thinking about what it might be like to have to lose someone twice. I’ve lost a couple friends, but the death that derailed everything was my dad’s. He died when I was three. Then he died again when I was 39. Same dad. Different deaths.
Let me explain.
Recently, after sharing a poem I wrote with my friend Roger, we both agreed that my weird rhymes deserved a macabre illustration style, something in the same vein as Edward Gorey or Aubrey Beardsley. In pursuit of inspiration, I perused Gorey illustrations, coming across one that reminded me of my own family portraits from when I was a child. I used to draw my dad as an angel floating over my mom, my brother and me.
My dad died on Super Bowl Sunday, 1987. Every year, Super Bowl Sunday comes with scant associations to distract me from the anniversary of his death. It really doesn’t matter who is performing in the half-time show. I’m as dispirited as a shoelace when it comes to football. I remember watching games with my dad on TV. In the mid-eighties TVs were very box-like, and I remember being unable to differentiate between the TV and other box-like appliances, namely the washer and dryer. I remember thinking, “Why are we watching clothes spin around in the washer?” My opinion of football hasn’t improved much since then. In fact, I think I’d rather watch clothes spin around than watch men tackle each other and sustain concussions.
When my family discovered him on the couch, I tried to wake him up, and my mom yanked me back. My brother stood there quietly. He was five, old enough to understand that there was no point in trying to wake him. After reality settled in, I was fuming. I yelled, “My daddy’s asleep, and he’s never going to wake up!”
Recently, my mother came by to visit me in Mishawaka. I still had a shamrock painted on my cheek from St. Patrick's Day the day before. “I have some news,” my mom told me. Despite having some dark interests, I really am an optimist at heart. I thought she’d landed a book deal or won the lottery. “It’s serious,” she added. Then I immediately thought, “Oh, no. Cancer. She’s dying.” Fortunately, it wasn’t that. The news was that someone who had died was dead all over again. “Your father is not your biological father,” she said. “Winfield had a botched double hernia surgery, and we found out he was sterile. We used a donor for both you and Cory.”
I guess the shamrock on my cheek didn’t bring me luck. Still, I’d rather know the truth, even if it’s painful. I joked with my mom that she should have capitalized on this family secret and revealed it on some day time talk show. I pretended I was okay at first, but couldn’t help but cry. I’m still searching for ways I can assuage my pain. Drinking pomegranate juice and listening to jazz are pleasant ways to pass the time. I’ve heard the Al Green song “L-O-V-E” playing on several occasions since receiving the news that I’m once again fatherless, enough times to find it a bit unusual. I’m thinking my dad is sending me a message through this Al Green song. I’m so thankful I don’t drink excessively. I usually just have one glass of wine per month. If I had a drinking problem, I may have gone off the deep end and tried to dull my pain through the bottle, stumbling and slurring my speech as I tell everyone that my dad is communicating with me through an Al Green song. Thanks to that song, the pain has gone from a constant throbbing to a dull ache.
During a French conversation lesson, I brought up how I used to wear my dad’s clothes when I was a teenager. I found a pair of some tan corduroy lederhosen in the attic, and I wore those with one of his sleeveless undershirts and a newsboy cap. I was supposed to be talking about Halloween costumes in French, but I got sidetracked.
On April Fools Day, my mom and I drove up to Michigan to watch a movie. That might sound crazy, but Indiana is grievously lacking in good theaters, and I miss going to movies. Back when I lived in Portland, I used to go to movies all the time. In the summer, I would go several times a week. If I loved a movie, I would save the ticket stub as a souvenir. I can still remember who accompanied me to each movie and our discussion afterward.
Anyway, a comforting thought occurred to me as I was watching the film, “The Lost King” with my mom. The main character, Philippa, becomes obsessed with Richard III. She feels a kinship with him because they are two lost souls, both deeply misunderstood. She becomes close with him, or his ghost anyway, and he gives her hints as to the whereabouts of his remains. Fun fact: The actor who plays Richard III, Harry Lloyd, is the great-great-great grandson of Charles Dickens.
At the end of the film, Richard III is given a proper burial. In finding him, Philippa manages to clear his name and make a name for herself.
As for my comforting thought, I realized that two people can be close, even form a sort of father-daughter bond, and it doesn’t matter that they lived five hundred years apart. Time doesn’t matter. And neither does biology.
