(More compost)

“Character is fate”, I was told this morning. On a literal level, supposedly moi=ra both “character” and “fate”. Reaaaally ... is that so?

I suppose I tend to get a bit arrogant when it comes to Greek and Latin things. Back in Irving, I got so frustrated with myself dozens of times. I was told I am the only freshman to have completed a junior/senior-level Greek class. I remember my first day of Homer with Dr. Davies. I was scared out of my mind. All around the room like a panel of senators or members of the e)kklhsi/a were The Seniors And Juniors. Who am I that the Upperclassmen should come to me? Depart from me, O Upperclassmen, for I am a sinful (fresh)man. I remember being so paranoid about absolutely everything and everyone in that class. It was my first semester in college, and first semester in a real school since junior high since I had been home schooled during my high school years and I had a senior level Greek class. It was both a huge triumph and a tremendous source of stress, both in terms of the difficulty and work assigned in the class and the pressure I put on myself to try to fit in.

That class nearly killed me, but I believe that it was worth it. Some of my better friends were made in that class and the subsequent semester’s Euripides class; furthermore, I discovered just how much Greek I could force myself to memorize over the course of one week, and on just how little sleep it was possible for me to survive.

I did it. I, little stupid Lauren.

It was great – but it has also given me a dangerous temptation to u(/bris to which, I’m afraid to say, I too often succumb. However, once I get around my upperclassmen friends whom I consider absolutely brilliant (Tyler Travillian, for example), I once again feel put in my place – what am I doing here? I’m not a classics major, I’m a dork.

But around people who are not classics majors, I’m a genius. This semester I have seen an inordinate number of eyes widen and jaws drop when they find through inquiry (I’m not keen on exposing myself as an uber-nerd by volunteering this information) that I know Latin and Attic Greek. “So,” they say, “you can speak Greek?” “Only ancient Greek,” I say, thinking of the Greece trip and reminding myself how useless I actually am. “But, like, you can read it and stuff – Homer? And these plays we’re reading?” “Well... yes...” I usually respond, as my head inflates a little more.

I think my biggest claim to fame in that class was the 27 lines I memorized from Book III of the Iliad. I recited them in class and drew a surprisingly positive response from the Very Scary Dr. Davies, at which point the clouds parted and the heavens were opened and I, Lauren, beheld the nine Muses and Graces.

And this sometimes leads me to believe that I know everything.

I do, however, know that I strongly disagree with the idea of character as fate.

I believe this first and foremost because I hate Greek and Latin. I won’t say I hate languages, and I think that’s the only thing that’s gotten me through my Greek and Latin languages thus far. The first time I took Latin, I failed. But then I took it again and passed with flying colors, and requested to skip a grade. My teacher informed me that, while I was fully qualified, she preferred that I not. I complied, but lived with the secret ego-inflation that I could have, as I vyed constantly with one other student for top Latinist in magistra’s class.

But I hate Latin. Hated it, rather. But not because I was bad at it.

And I hate Greek, and I still hate it. As a language, it’s very interesting. I must admit that, for all my protestations of the classics as a useless major, I’ve learned quite a lot about language and its structure which has facilitated the learning of other languages. At heart, I believe I’m a linguist. But not a Greekist. Just a Geek.

I started taking Greek for the stupidest of reasons which I will not divulge here. The only reason I was good at it was because I had a goal: I wanted to catch up with the class which started a year or two ahead of me, and I wanted to do it in the shortest amount of time possible. Sure enough, in a year and a half I had caught up to them. Disappointingly enough, when I “caught up” to them in terms of the book we were using, I found I was bored with the Greek they were doing.

My resolve started to waver some but then my ego was again inflated when my high school Greek teacher said that we could do whatever I wanted ... and so I chose the most difficult author I knew of: Euripides, whose Bacchae comprised the Greek level VI class.

I did the Hippolytus, which I did again second semester of Freshman year in Senior Greek class.

Why did I do this if I hate Greek? I have absolutely no idea.

A further example: I consider myself to be a very girly girl. I’ve never taken a huge interest in sports other than things like gymnastics, ice skating and baseball. Football was odious to me, and soccer, miserable. Lately I’ve taken to skirts and French manicures and a whole host of other silly girl things I despised in my youth. Yet at the same time, I am positively dying to go into the Army. I am in the midst of applying to West Point, and I am beginning to practice for the physical test I will have to take. I did ROTC and camped out in the woods without showering for four days – something I’ve always regardde with disdain. Heaven forbid I should get my hands dirty or even worse, break a sweat. But I find the oddest and most wonderful thing to be the post-workout “YEAH” feeling, as if I could take on the world. I dread working out lest I break a terribly unladylike sweat, but once I have completed a number of pushups and a two-mile run until I am extremely red in the face and soaked through, I wouldn’t trade the Tantaline asphyxiation for the Elysian fields. My family has always ridiculed me for the cushiness of life I’ve had as the youngest child. I questioned myself, at first, what kind of ridiculous idea I thought I had.

But when I started doing ROTC, I had found my niche. It was difficult, yes, but it was extremely rewarding. I went on our field training exercise (FTX) with proudly painted toenails beneath my freshly polished, mirrorlike combat boots. I came back with sanitized dirt ground into the delicate whorls of my fingertips which refused to be removed for some days hence.

Why? If I had looked at myself four years before, I would have thought myself absolutely nuts, as most of my friends and family did. To all appearances, it was totally out of keeping with my character, and I still rather believe it is.

If I were to follow entirely through with my character, I believe my fate would be condemned to some dusty academic corner in some slightly less-than-prestigious university on the East Coast instructing a bunch of disinterested tweens about Hesperides and the blahblahblah of the umpteenth century and the conquests of Whatsisface the Ubiquitous over the Highly Obscure persons of Asia Lesser. And I would probably like it, because I do have a thing for history, obscure knowledge and dead languages.

But I reject that fate and I reject that character. I reject the self-absorbed person I let myself become.

And for that matter I don’t think Oedipus was all that bad. He killed Laius because he was threatened. He stumbled into the city and solved the riddle of the Sphinx and, hey hey hey, here was this rich and awesome widow queen who wanted to reward the nobody with his own kingdom. Seeing as he was entirely displaced from his old kingdom for the very fear of fulfilling the prophecy, who wouldn’t take such an offer? If someone tries to kill you, most thinking persons would fight back. After that, marriage as a reward for saving a kingdom is almost a natural thing at the time. Consider Theseus, consider Whatsisname the Ubiquitous.

Hubris? Who wouldn’t react with shock and an extremely strong knee-jerk reaction if they were accused of bringing ruin to one’s family and kingdom, of killing that which one nurtures above all. What’s worse, sullying the family – killing one’s father and marrying one’s mother. If the idea is wretched and disgusting enough to us, how much worse would it be for a culture of honor. I recall the Spartan mother who told her son as he was going off to war to return triumphant with his shield or dead on top of it.

I guess one could grumblingly say that it was Apollo’s priest Tiresius who ought to know and not just some random schmo. However I think that the emotional reaction would still cover over this for even the most pious of Greeks.

And so I think the gods, as Sophocles portrays them – impersonal, random, absolute and unescapable – are very much akin to a Calvinist’s view of predestination. As a Catholic, I reject the idea of predestination and embrace the notion of free-will (voluntas) and furthermore reject character as fate. For what Paul could escape his moi=ra? For a long span of years, Paul was being formed and forming himself into the person that he was, the Saul of Tarsus who killed Christians. Moi=ra not only ignores the heavenly vocation knocking one off one’s proverbial horse (who would say that Paul’s subsequent actions were completely within character of Saul?), but also the idea of repentance. What most hardened of criminals could repent of his own will and volition, since repentance is de facto out of keeping with the character of a hardened criminal?

I never in my life thought I would pass an Army physical fitness test because I am lazy and I hate to run. But who plans on their birth? Oedipus did not anticipate being born into his family situation and prophecy, nor did I plan on being the daughter of a retired Army Lieutenant Colonel. Dad wanted me to carry the Brannon name on to something, to follow in his footsteps somehow. Being the only one in my family who likes to read and has the slightest academic bent, I continually ran in the opposite direction, until I came to the 9/11 crossroads where I killed my Laius of laziness, doubt and inaction which threatened to dominate my life.

I would even say Oedipus did a brave and pious thing in making every effort not to offend the gods in fleeing from his adopted parents. He faced adversity at the crossroads and preserved his life.

However, the Editor in my head reminds me – the Editor formed partially by the Uniform Code of Military Justice (UCMJ) – ignorance of the law is no excuse.

I’m almost certain, however, that had Oedipus come up for trial before an Army court that he would not have received a dishonorable discharge, but merely demotion and some time in Leavenworth.