Wherever we live, we are likely part of a society that told us for decades not to bring up uncomfortable topics— politics, money, sex, racism, mental health.
In each of our lives, well-meaning adults have told us that it is inappropriate—or maybe even insensitive, or thoughtless—to discuss any of these in the company of others. This begs a crucial question for educators: when the literature we teach is filled with challenging material that touches upon these areas and more, how can we possibly be ready to bring them up in our Latin classrooms, filled with students who likely received those same messages?
The thing is, entrenched as those messages are, the dams have long been broken that had tried for so long to prevent us from discussing any of those.
Whatever our own levels of comfort are, we are all talking with others more frankly than we did even ten—even five—years ago about depression, about white privilege, about the one percent, and about the horrors that brought about the #MeToo movement. And all of that is in conflict with that ingrained lesson we have all internalized to keep things light. To ask someone how they are doing and have no expectation that the answer will be genuine. And to be surprised, even uncomfortable, when someone responds with a candid admission of just how unwell they might be.
With all of this hard stuff now at the surface of our discourse society-wide, we are actually in a transformative moment of opportunity to support students in a way we may never have before.
The pandemic has amplified everything, large and small. We as Latin teachers can embrace what has always been there in the pages of our textbooks, in the subtext and the actual text of our ancient readings. We can allow students to share what is inside them when they encounter problematic content: the key is acknowledging that it is there, and that all of us find that hard.
Of course, at the heart of any interaction with students is an awareness that they do as we do. If we are open, they take the cue that they can be, too.
But if we judge harshly, so will they. If we never admit wrongdoing, if we do not see our own faults, if we insist that something means something because we know it always has, they will learn to be just as obstinate, just as clueless of self, and just as closed off to new possibilities. So, from the very first day, we must welcome observations from every corner of the Latin classroom. We must allow them to tell us what they see, assuring them that there is no right or wrong when we are simply sharing what comes to our minds. We must practice this along with them, we must model this, and we must celebrate the discovery of something new when a student notes a detail that we never saw.
That is the very first step.
In concrete terms, that begins with, perhaps, an image. If the setting is an introductory course, we show them a work of Roman or Greek art before the series of simple Latin sentences, and we open the floor. If the setting is advanced, we project a poem onto the screen—or better yet, a relevant image that conveys the tone of that poem so as to lessen the intimidation that comes with sophisticated text—and allow any and all observations to enter the discussion space.
Next, we do as they do in theater and improvisation training: we “Yes, and…” our students. We hear their observation, and we validate it. We take what they just said and we build upon it. “Yes! There is a lot of detail in the helmet on Athena. I also notice that her hand is clasping something that is no longer there. I wonder what that was?” And then another student conjectures. We create a sense in the Latin classroom, in that moment, that what everyone sees matters. What every learner encounters is valuable, and important, and can construct something that elucidates and informs. There may be something we find objectionable that arises in a group discussion, from even seemingly benign content. In those moments, disagreement with that can—and sometimes should—come from us as teachers. And yet, we must also still aim for engagement from every student by creating the space that encourages it.
Lastly, we repeat this practice every day, in every class, throughout the year. And by doing so, we make it okay to just connect.
Sooner or later, the students in our courses will learn that innocent people in the Roman Empire were enslaved. That Roman citizens rejoiced in the deaths of others for entertainment in the arena. That women, young and old, were subjected to sexual violence. That there was brutality, and derangement, and injustice, and that to learn the Latin language is to come in contact with that within our lessons. But they will know, because they will have practiced, since Day One, the habit of just sharing what they see. They will know that we will not judge what they share, and they will know not to judge their classmates. They will venture into talking about hard things because they will have been practicing that all along. And we will have, too, alongside them.
Benjamin Joffe has been teaching Latin at The Hewitt School in New York for over a decade. During that time, he has presented at conferences on numerous topics around Latin pedagogy, including turning the Latin classroom into a workshop space, and teaching problematic textbook literature in the age of #MeToo, which became the springboard for an article on the topic that he wrote for The Classical Outlook in 2019. He is a graduate of Yeshiva University and the Graduate Center of the City University of New York. Follow Benjamin on Twitter @BenjiJoffe
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