A few months ago, in search of a functional printer, I found myself in my coworker's office. I didn't know him very well, but after I finished printing, he asked me to stay for a few minutes and tell him about myself. I talked about my family and growing up in southern California and what I studied at BC, and that last thing especially caught his attention. I explained that I had majored in English and theology and that, no, I wasn't interested in joining the clergy but that, yes, I thought reading and writing could bring us a little closer to the divine. And, of course, I told him about everything I had read in my Honors seminars.
He, in turn, told me that he was very sick - he'd been fighting cancer for the past two years - and that he found great solace in literature. He told me that reading had helped him come to terms with his own death and that he wasn't scared of it anymore; he felt prepared. I was certainly caught off guard by his candor but his sincerity amazed me and I knew I had to come up with something good as a response.
So, I had the most Boston-College-Honors-program moment of my life thus far and started talking about Montaigne's Of the Education of Children. I was clumsily attempting to explain the gist in Spanish and I couldn't help but laugh at myself as I tried to translate this oft-quoted (by Honors program groupies, if no one else) line:
"For it seems to me that the first lessons in which we should steep his mind must be those that regulate his behavior and his sense, that will teach him to know himself and to die well and to live well."
You see, about three and a half years ago, Prof. Mark O'Connor, then-director of the Honors program and Boston College legend, recited those words to me when telling me about his own brush with death (a clogged artery leading to an emergency surgery.) Evidently, dear Prof. O'Connor insisted on reading Of the Education of Children while in the ambulance, a detail he tried to use to illustrate the practicality of the Honors program curriculum (I was a doubter.) Instead, it mostly convinced me that he was rather absurd and living in some intellectual la-la land; it would be a few more months before my reluctant conversion.
I came to love that absurdity, and to understand it not as a pathetic delusion, but as a fascinatingly clarifying lens through which I too could examine the big mysteries - death, life, and everything in between. And, consequently, I repeated Montaigne's now-beloved words to my coworker.
Despite my less-than-graceful translation, he seemed to really love that idea of "dying well" - it was precisely what had occupied his mind and guided his reading since he was diagnosed. He told me he was going to try to find Los Ensayos de Montaigne and read them for himself and thanked me for sharing part of my own education with him. And every day after that, he greeted me with a warm smile and at least a few words of kind conversation.
Unfortunately, I don't think he ever got the chance to read Los Ensayos; he passed away last Thursday. I was at the basilica in Mexico City for the Día de la Virgen de Guadalupe; he was at school, playing basketball with some of the other teachers. Even though he had been sick, it was still rather sudden, and is hitting my school community hard.
Of course, his death is something to be mourned - he was young and extremely loved, and is survived by a wife and children - but in such sad moments, it's also important to remember to celebrate the man himself. And that's why I've had Montaigne on my mind. From what little I know, the man, the beloved teacher embodied that quote as much as a mere mortal can. He encouraged his students to invest themselves in their work and to really learn from their studies - that is, learn not just grammatical structures and pedagogical strategies, but also something about those big mysteries. He was, like so many other teachers I've known (including Prof. O'Connor, of course) just the sort of educator I hope to be one day.
If you have a few spare moments, read some Montaigne (his essays are online) or some poetry or something that seems a bit absurd but might offer some oblique truths. And let yourself be transformed.
He, in turn, told me that he was very sick - he'd been fighting cancer for the past two years - and that he found great solace in literature. He told me that reading had helped him come to terms with his own death and that he wasn't scared of it anymore; he felt prepared. I was certainly caught off guard by his candor but his sincerity amazed me and I knew I had to come up with something good as a response.
So, I had the most Boston-College-Honors-program moment of my life thus far and started talking about Montaigne's Of the Education of Children. I was clumsily attempting to explain the gist in Spanish and I couldn't help but laugh at myself as I tried to translate this oft-quoted (by Honors program groupies, if no one else) line:
"For it seems to me that the first lessons in which we should steep his mind must be those that regulate his behavior and his sense, that will teach him to know himself and to die well and to live well."
You see, about three and a half years ago, Prof. Mark O'Connor, then-director of the Honors program and Boston College legend, recited those words to me when telling me about his own brush with death (a clogged artery leading to an emergency surgery.) Evidently, dear Prof. O'Connor insisted on reading Of the Education of Children while in the ambulance, a detail he tried to use to illustrate the practicality of the Honors program curriculum (I was a doubter.) Instead, it mostly convinced me that he was rather absurd and living in some intellectual la-la land; it would be a few more months before my reluctant conversion.
I came to love that absurdity, and to understand it not as a pathetic delusion, but as a fascinatingly clarifying lens through which I too could examine the big mysteries - death, life, and everything in between. And, consequently, I repeated Montaigne's now-beloved words to my coworker.
Despite my less-than-graceful translation, he seemed to really love that idea of "dying well" - it was precisely what had occupied his mind and guided his reading since he was diagnosed. He told me he was going to try to find Los Ensayos de Montaigne and read them for himself and thanked me for sharing part of my own education with him. And every day after that, he greeted me with a warm smile and at least a few words of kind conversation.
Unfortunately, I don't think he ever got the chance to read Los Ensayos; he passed away last Thursday. I was at the basilica in Mexico City for the Día de la Virgen de Guadalupe; he was at school, playing basketball with some of the other teachers. Even though he had been sick, it was still rather sudden, and is hitting my school community hard.
Of course, his death is something to be mourned - he was young and extremely loved, and is survived by a wife and children - but in such sad moments, it's also important to remember to celebrate the man himself. And that's why I've had Montaigne on my mind. From what little I know, the man, the beloved teacher embodied that quote as much as a mere mortal can. He encouraged his students to invest themselves in their work and to really learn from their studies - that is, learn not just grammatical structures and pedagogical strategies, but also something about those big mysteries. He was, like so many other teachers I've known (including Prof. O'Connor, of course) just the sort of educator I hope to be one day.
If you have a few spare moments, read some Montaigne (his essays are online) or some poetry or something that seems a bit absurd but might offer some oblique truths. And let yourself be transformed.
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