Essay Masterclass / References
I am a Jew (culturally). I am an atheist (intellectually). I am an existentialist (just because). So what on earth was I doing at Montana Catholic College, sequestered, it seemed, from anything remotely akin to rationality? Supposedly, learning to speak the lingua Latina in a full immersion environment. The description of Vivarium Novum Academy had certainly sounded religious – but the chimes of dedicated Latinists coming together for a week had managed to (mostly) drown out the alarm bells raised by ’liturgical celebrations’ and ’praying the rosary.’ After all, they had said non-Catholics could attend.
Having just come from a philosophy course at Brown – where Nietzsche, Sartre, and fringe political movements comprised most of the dinnertime conversation – I was about to become rudely acquainted with the phenomenon of existential alienation.
Within the first 24 hours, this suburban, secular, liberal Washingtonian tried to discuss Harry Potter – only to learn that "witchcraft is morally objectionable;" and, when we discussed the U.S states people had visited, that "Florida is all weirdos and liberals."
These were the moments, the ones where "the Latin vow" was broken (we were supposed to speak Latin exclusively), when I became uncomfortably aware that I was truly in the minority. Several went so far as to speculate openly about my chances of getting into heaven after I revealed (quite timidly) my own beliefs. I was shocked.
Still, I did my best to speak up, in English and Latin. And, as I laughed at Latin jokes, discussed the natural beauty of the mountains, and attempted to explain my political views, I began to see a vibrant, complex, and yes, diverse tapestry of smart, interesting human beings unfurl.
I discovered I had been clinging to a rather tenuous set of stereotypes, the product of a one-sided, liberal education. For all their dogmatic views, these people were not backwards or stupid; they loved having discussions about theology that were every bit as intense as the discussions I had about Nietzsche. They were not shy about expressing their opinions – yet they listened respectfully to mine, and seemed remarkably sensitive to the fact that I was an outsider. They were kind.
And they were not all the same. Some had overcome alcoholism, drugs, and worse at an exceptionally young age. Many lived far more modestly than I did – and several expressed frustration with their inability to take more interesting classes, and to meet more smart, interesting people at home like they had at the Vivarium. Attending a relatively affluent private school, I had always thought I lived an average life (no yacht, no mansion, 1994 Volvo), but compared to them, I was inundated with privilege. We had only one thing in common: a second, ancient language that bridged vastly separate cultures, and created a bonafide rostrum for very different people to come together, learn, and share their lives. Latin’s ultimate gift, I realized, was not SAT vocabulary; it was not gold medals, and it was not even the ability to read the Aeneid in its original form. It was friendship.
By the week’s end, my philosophical predilections remained unchanged, but I did not. The last night of the program, someone expressed to me his deep, sincere concern that I would go to hell. That boy, I fervently believe, is wrong, but no matter who has it right, our time together is limited. And, strange as it might sound, I could tell he said those ominous things to me out of genuine kindness and concern. We still see each other as friends, something, I think, that affirms these words: carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero – seize the day, trusting in the future as little as possible.