I was a Classical Studies major in undergrad and my speciality was Ancient Greek. Not that I was ever very good at it. Most of my memories at Classics involve lounging in the the gorgeous Colgate University Classics center on lazy snowy Sundays. My peers and I spending hours curling up by the Netflix fireplace video and wrestling with Ancient Greek verbs.
I don't always enjoy talking about my major. The conversation usually starts with me explaining (to whoever is quizzing me about my future) that classics is the study of Ancient Greece and Rome, and not Jane Eyre and classic literature. I tend to steer the conversation that follows in a few different directions, based on how I've sized up the person that I'm talking to.
If I want to spark their imagination, I like to take them on a journey with me. I paint verbal pictures of grand empires, epic speeches, and the Olympian gods -- always a fan favorite. One quick telling of Catullus 16 and they often get onboard pretty quickly.
If I want to appeal to their sense of grandeur, I emphasis the roving nature of my field. "Why would I limit myself to studying history," I begin, "When I can study language, art, culture, archaeology, religion, political science, philosophy, architecture, and history?" My field is a period not a subject, which means I can follow a wide range of paths in all sorts of directions within two of the most powerful and beautiful societies the western world has ever seen. Why would I limit myself -- why would I make myself choose?
If I'm feeling particularly poetic, I like to begin to wax on the beautiful, fickle nature of Classics. I call it a jigsaw puzzle. I recall the story of Professor Pratt telling me he would have traded every book of Tacitus for just one of the lost books of Sappho. Time is cruel, and every Classicist knows that what has remained through these thousands of years paints an incomplete picture. I describe classicists like great detectives, making their way, inch by inch, through the evidence we can uncover -- building our narratives of the past brick by brick.
If I don't have the time, energy, or the inclination (probably because I don't feel like they'd listen anyway) I tell them I love Greek. Perhaps I lie and say that I want to be a professor, because I know that's the only answer that'll stop the questions. It isn't a lie, necessarily, but it certainly isn't the truth either.
If I'm asked why I studied Classics by someone I trust, I will tell them the story. I was a lost sophomore, unsure of what I wanted, when Professor Seth Holm convinced me (bullied me) into taking Greek 121. Learning Ancient Greek was undoubtedly the most challenging academic pursuit I've ever taken on, yet I don't regret a single day of it. Or a single night, when it comes to the late hours that inevitably accompany those who attempt such folly. I'll never forget the day when Professor Stull was describing the perfect complexities and nuances of Ancient Greek grammar. "The Greek verb," he told us, "Is like looking into the eye of God."
If I'm asked why I studies Classics by someone I love, I will tell them the truth. I took the class because of Holm, I was aware of the field because of the stories, I was entranced because of the puzzles, but the real reason I stayed was because of the people. The Colgate Classics departments, students and staff, is filled with people who know how to love with every inch of themselves. I adore how difficult it can be to explain, and I don't want to be taught by professors who are motivated by anything less than love. The beauty of my major was inseparably tied to the fact that people tend to ask us why. I wanted to be surrounded by something that captured people so intensely that they followed a path that didn't always make sense.
I didn't feel that love for Classics that way, but being around people who did was more than enough for me. I loved comedy that way, and it was enough for me. I was finally around people who gave shits the way I gave shits. Wil Wheaton once said that being a nerd isn't about the things that love, but the manner in which you love them. I knew how to love like they did.
Excepting one paper that I wrote about Alexander Hamilton and Thucydides in the throes of a “Hamilton” obsession senior year, every other major Classics paper that I wrote at Colgate was in some way about stand-up. In my sophomore year, I wrote paper comparing the Ancient Roman poet Catullus with Marc Maron. I argued the similarities between the Neoteric poets and the Alternative comedians of the 1990s. "They both sacrificed the safety found in their art form's traditional structure for a deeper connection with their audience through more honest and direct expression ... Maron and Catullus redefined not only the paths to success in their fields, but opened the floodgates for future artistic deviants of all sorts, and they were able to do so by bringing their audiences directly into the fray of their own messy hearts."
Comedians were always in my work, regardless of topic -- from broadcasting them in the heart of my arguments, to simply quoting them and letting them run a muck in the footnotes. The thoughts and philosophies of my favorite comedians are so internalized in my mind and so central to my way of thinking that I can hardly form a coherent thought without pulling from something I learned from them. For example, I'll never forget hearing Christian Finnegan say, "There comes a point where the disappointments in your life accrue faster than you can find external forces to blame them on." Or hearing George Carlin say "Don't just teach your kids to read, teach them to question what they read. Teach them to question everything." Or even something as simple as Pete Holmes telling his audience to "Live a life worth commenting on.” The person I've become is so built on the wit and wisdom of my comedians that they can never be far from me.
My radio show was always there for me to help chew out my ideas for comedy-centric independent studies and programs. When I wanted to write a class paper about Marc Maron and Catullus, I worked out my ideas on air. I was a Classical Studies major, but there was always an ancient poet or philosopher who seemed to resonate with a modern comedian, typically whichever comic I happened to be in love with at the time.
At Colgate, I designed and ran three different independent studies with three different professors. Colgate didn’t pay professors for taking on independents with students. I had to prove to them it was worth their time, angling my research to match with theirs. I studied the cultural tides of America through the 50 year career of George Carlin with a sociology professor, and I studied the power of dark comedy, from Lenny Bruce to Richard Pryor with an English professor. Damn, it was such a blast. Perhaps more on that later.