April 16, 2001

Charlottesville, Virginia

I awoke to the sound of birds chirping in the early dawn. The sun was beginning to shine through my bedroom window and I couldn’t quite place myself. Sure: it was my bed. It was my room. But where I had been before awaking was a question that would surely haunt me for the rest of the day.

I continued to study the walls as I got out of bed. They were the same murals my roommate had painted when we first moved into this two-bedroom apartment about six blocks from the university proper, a place affectionately known as the Grounds.

Thomas Jefferson, third president of the United States, author of the Declaration of Independence, and founder of the University of Virginia, had lent his time and talent to this academic project which culminated in 1811, just fifteen years before his death on July 4, 1826. Jefferson had apparently scoffed at the idea of calling his university a “campus,” and instead had created the concept that it was, rather, a “grounds” where students and professors would cohabitate, educate, and be educated. He was the architect of the Academical Village, an enclosed community of sorts with dorms for students and pavilions where professors would live and have their lectures. The centerpiece was the library, called the Rotunda, a cylindrical brick building with a dome meant to mimic the Pantheon in Rome, and a stretch of grass, called the Lawn, that served as a courtyard for the dorms and pavilions. The University of Virginia had since ballooned into a premier academic institution replete with monstrous academic buildings, a student center, dormitories, an athletic center, and stadiums for football, soccer, and lacrosse, a basketball arena, and a statue of Homer, the great Greek poet, among others. Jefferson’s little experiment in the foothills of central Virginia had become the crown jewel of the commonwealth, consistently ranked among the top public schools in the nation.

I came to U.Va. after graduating from a small high school in California, Maryland, nearly three years ago. After being accepted to the school, I arrived for my first visit with the presumption that I would not like the experience and would rather opt for the much cheaper, in-state University of Maryland, which had also accepted me to join their incoming freshman class. A third school, Boston University, was among those that had courted me since my junior year in high school, but the cost and distance forbade me from considering it as a viable option. I guess I considered schools in the Northeast because my brother, Nathan, was attending Brown. My visit to New England, however, was not as pleasant as I might have hoped. Perhaps it was just the idea of following in my brother’s footsteps that bugged me.

There was something very cozy about the University of Virginia, something that left an indelible impression on my mind when I returned home. I had always been a fan of Thomas Jefferson, thinking he had made great contributions to American society, but I had never really given much thought to studying at his university until setting foot on the Grounds. The romanticism of his architecture caught me up in a whirlwind and I was instantly consumed by it. I sat on the Lawn for a good long while, just watching students and professors passing by, having intellectual discussions or playing Frisbee Golf in the open spaces. The Rotunda presented itself to me as something that demanded respect and exuded confidence as well as intellectual prowess. I thought that, by being there, I was taking part in Mr. Jefferson’s experiment: to educate the uneducated and prepare them for entrance into society in hopes of making a difference in the world.

Standing in front of a small statue on the east side of the Rotunda, I made the confident decision to attend this school; I thought it might be a good place to study history, as I was most interested in the subject. By the end of my second year, however, this interest had morphed into a desire to study politics. Within the past year, I had become very interested in political philosophy and had benefitted greatly from learning about the theories behind our modern form of government.

I would not, by any stretch of the imagination, call myself a typical U.Va. student. Most of them hailed from the Northern Virginia suburbs, many coming from elite private schools and so consumed by the comforts of the finer life that they turn the university into a playground for spoiled rich kids. I grew up rather modestly on the banks of the Patuxent River, in the shadow of the Chesapeake Bay, where my family emphasized not falling prey to the traps of glamorous surroundings. And yet, I put myself right in the thick of it by coming to a place like this.

My roommate, Chris Delos, and I seemed to get along because he was not one of those kids. He, in stark contrast to our prep-school peers, was more of a creative, touchy-feely, hippie type. He expressed himself through art and music, and his murals—which filled the house—told stories I could never understand. I think you would have to be on acid to fully appreciate them, as I’m sure some of his local towny friends were when they came over occasionally to hang out. To his credit, his choice of colors, particularly in my bedroom, did seem to lift my spirits from time to time, even if I would not think of resorting to LSD or some other state of psychodelia to appreciate them.

His bedroom door was wide open and there was no sign of him as I walked around the apartment half-awake that morning. Sometimes the quiet was a blessing as he had a habit of starting out the morning with stories about the obscure and cultish world to which he belonged. Surely he would have started talking about some random party he had attended last night and how they were beating drums in a tribal circle. “Oh, you shoulda been there, Parker!” he would say. I’m far too quiet for that type of display, and the girls are all unshaven and brazen. I think I’d rather sit in my room and listen to the cars drive by. Yeah, I guess you could say I’m kind of boring.

My morning routine proceeded just as always: First the shower—sprinkled with a bit of song, if I was in the mood. Not this morning, though. The thought of the dream I had last night was still deeply etched in my mind, and nothing would get rid of it with any deliberate speed—not even the fresh, eye-opening scent of Irish Spring or the scalding temperature of the water, which ran over my chest and trickled in meandering paths down the insides of my legs to the arches of my feet and off to its final resting place. I was there, but I wasn’t there. It was just the routine. And somewhere in my early life, the importance of routines had been implanted in my brain like one of Mustafa Mond’s wicked baby-manufacturing and repetitious-reinforcement experiments from Brave New World. Two plus two is four. Open your eyes, get out of bed, and jump in the shower. I always considered myself an Alpha-Plus. Then I would look in the mirror.

Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. I could still hear the echo of my mom imploring me to sit down at the breakfast table as I ran out the door for the school bus. I was such a disheveled young lad, hair unkempt, always thinking I was a ghost of some sort—people noticed me occasionally, but it seemed I slipped into some infinitude of nothingness as they gathered in their little bonfire cliques. “Look what I got for my birthday! Don’t you just loooove it!” Yes, little Amy: it’s lovely. Just like the daffodils.

My only solace growing up was the world of literature and the occasional friend. Borrowing words from the pages of The Mixed Up Files of Ms. Basil E. Frankmeir, I would greet my only friend, Robert Milton. “Hey, look at this bug I found!” he was often known to say. The girls thought Robert was ugly. The boys would call him “nerd” and threaten to beat him up. With those wire-framed glasses two sizes too big for his eyes, let alone his head, the girls might have had a point. I didn’t care about that; I thought he was interesting. He was the only person I could stand being around for more than ten minutes.

Robert and I have since gone our separate ways, he to MIT, and me—well, I’m trying to make it by as a student here in Charlottesville, Virginia. Sometimes I think about what life would have been like had he decided to come here instead of go there. Would we have still been friends? Well, there was no time for that just now; I had about ten minutes to walk a quarter-mile to my classroom. Out the door. No breakfast. No mom to scream at me this time! But in an hour or so, when my stomach started protesting, I was sure I would find out what she really meant about the importance of the first meal of the day. Of course, Mom was always right. Today wouldn’t be different—crazy dream or not.

It was a pleasant spring day, typical in central Virginia. I had grown accustomed to it. Miles to the west, a clump of earthen mounts made their way across the ground like anthills in the sand. The trees were donning their green feathers and looking as if they were ready to start flapping them at any moment. A light breeze announced the subtle aromas of spring flowers, and the Technicolor cornucopia of flora bombarded my sight.

Everyone is a zombie here. I have said that for most of my time here. Year Three is nearing a close and I have not found anything out of order where that is concerned. Metropolitan New York has nothing on the University of Virginia! How did I ever think I could find my place in this place?

Was I sold by the picturesque brochures of people smiling and laughing in the gardens and in front of the pavilions? Or perhaps it was the urging of my parents who saw U.Va. as a great gateway to a formidable career? Nope. Like so many who grace the halls of this little hamlet in the Virginia countryside, I was caught up in the ideal authored by one man: Thomas Jefferson. The “author of the Declaration of Independence, the author of the Statute of Religious Freedom for the Commonwealth of Virginia, and the founder of the University of Virginia.” So says his epitaph on the small monument that bears his name at Monticello. Surely, someone with such wide-sweeping appeal would have something in store for me, right? He was a genius, wasn’t he? And wouldn’t I just somehow pick up his genius in the air or something if I spent some time at his darling little academic experiment?

“Thomas Jefferson created the first public school in the nation so that average people could get an education and prepare for entrance into public life.” So say the U. Guides, mouthing off rah-rah bullshit to visiting parents and potential students so that they can be suckered into returning an acceptance letter. I know them all by now, the selling points. Then you slip off the beaten path to see what’s really going on. This place is a death trap for the uber-loaded, the kids who spent a gap year in Paris, with trust funds the size of Montana. Average people? I think not! There are no average people here. “Aristocrat” comes from the Greek word, aristoi, meaning “the best men.” In what way? I would often wonder to myself to no avail. Let one of those sixteen-year-olds ask me for a guided tour. I’ll have them running home crying to their parents.

So much for Mr. Jefferson’s experiment. What made matters worse was today was the day the university had set aside to honor Thomas Jefferson’s birthday, as it was this past weekend. It would culminate in a university-wide celebration called Founder’s Day. He’d turn over in his grave. “We thank you, O, Mr. Jefferson, for making us believe that we are far more important than we are!” I was going to be late for class.

“So, essentially, what you have here is…”

Professors at U.Va. are referred to by their common titles: Mr., Ms., or Mrs.—never “Doctor,” never “Professor.” That’s just one of the Jeffersonianisms that continue to permeate his beloved university. Too bad Mr. Brown isn’t befitting of such a humble title. Please, call me Professor, I always imagine him saying in his mind when he is addressed. Or, for that matter, “Your Highness” would do just fine.

Mr. Brown teaches Ancient Political Theory and has published many books on Plato, Aristotle, and other Greek authors whose names I can’t pronounce. He holds conferences and lectures at the Rotunda and is one of the most distinguished academics U.Va. has to offer. He’s always referring to some work of Aristophanes that he translated and published and makes everyone in his classes buy. Not the simple English translation, mind you. No, this guy wants us to get the Loeb Classical, published by Harvard University Press, the one with the Ancient Greek on one side and the English translation on the other. So, what you mean to say, Mr. Brown, is that you want us to buy half a book, ’cause that’s all that I will be able to read. Today he spent half the hour talking about words in Greek that lose their meaning in English. “When you are talking about politics, you are speaking Greek. Learn to love it. I encourage you all to take Greek at some time in your career, for it will enliven your experience. Hell, even Mr. Jefferson taught himself Greek! You can do it, too,” Mr. Brown would say. Then, I suppose, I’ll be able to read the other half of your book. Well, great. Where do I sign up? I forgot to mention that he also teaches upper-level Greek.

Apart from Mr. Brown’s incessant babbling, his lectures are actually quite interesting.

“What do we learn, metaphorically speaking, from the ‘Allegory of the Cave’? Yeah, Steve?”

Steve was one of the frat boys. There’s Mr. Brown’s Greek; then there’s Steve’s Greek. Though Steve’s kind of Greek is probably more important at this school. He’s kind of a show-off. And some of the things that come out of his mouth—especially in class—would sound better coming from a frog in heat. But let’s face it, America: he looks good doing it. Two plus two is four.

“Doesn’t it symbolize the struggle between Man and God?” Steve said, not missing a beat. No, you idiot: that’s called the Bible.

“Well, okay,” Mr. Brown noted. “That’s actually a good start, Steve.” Mr. Brown had a way of stroking Steve’s ego. “But let’s see if we can get a little deeper.” He turned to look at me. “Parker, haven’t heard from you in a while.” Several heads turned in my direction as I took in a deep breath.

“Plato is talking about the tension between the different sides of Man. On the one hand, you have a freed man contemplating his newfound existence, wondering whether he should want to learn more about what is around him, and how he would share his freedom. On the other hand, he contemplates whether he wants the responsibility.”

Mr. Brown shook his head in a agreement. “Very good, Parker,” he said. That’s when everyone really noticed me.

Mr. Brown continued with the lecture. “The Greek word used in this section is agon. It’s found in English words like ‘antagonist’—someone who is against, in struggle with, the protagonist. Plato, here, is trying to point out that Man is in constant struggle with himself. Agon in Greek means ‘contest’ or ‘struggle.’ He means to say, in this allegory, that Man, who has been rewarded with exceptional gifts, has to struggle—have a contest—with his other self.”

Plato’s Republic was pretty much standard reading for anyone studying political science, or, as it is called at U.Va., government. Yes, U.Va. has its own way of doing things and has invented its own language in true Jeffersonian style, as you’ve probably noticed. I’m sure there’s a lexicon somewhere in the Rotunda library.

In the Republic, so I am to understand, Plato, through the classic style of elenchos, engages a few wise men in ancient Athens in an attempt to craft the best possible society. There are some scholars who think Plato wasn’t actually trying to create an ideal society, but try to tell a neoclassicist, like Leo Strauss, that and you’ll get into trouble. In the interest of political theory—which happens to be my concentration within the government program here—the Republic stands alone as the single most important work written in that field. And, hence, you have generations of the political theorists who owe their craft, in no small part, to the contributions of Plato.

The “Allegory of the Cave,” as it is called, is found in Book VIII of the Republic. A couple of prisoners with their legs and hands bound are holed up in a cave with a fire burning behind them. The only things they are allowed to see, apart from themselves, are the shadows that are projected onto the wall in front of them. A hypothetical question is asked in which one of the prisoners is somehow able to free himself from the chains and encounter the light that rests outside the cave. The fundamental quandary then becomes whether the freed individual is obligated to return to the cave and guide others out.

Herein lies the tension. The freed prisoner, in Plato’s imagination, is the philosopher, the one who is able to grasp the so-called “higher things” and make them easier to understand for the rest of humanity. In arguing that the philosopher is the best and most qualified to rule mankind, Plato places the onus on philosophers to reach into the heart of human civilization and rule virtuously through their knowledge of the Platonic Good. Noting that philosophers tend to hide in the shadows of human society, Plato argues that they must overcome their propensity to be reclusive and take their rightful place among the citizenry.

Mr. Brown was not shy about his love of Platonic dialogues. He started reading from the text, inserting an occasional Greek word in the Classical dialect. Plato was like poetry to him. Some professors get off on reading Milton or Shakespeare. Mr. Brown seemed to love almost poetic nature of Platonic dialogue.

By this time, Steve had stopped looking at me. Catherine, on the other hand, was smiling widely. I always thought she had a thing for me. She looked away when I caught her attention, but I could tell that she had been looking at me since I started speaking. I looked down at the floor and drifted into Daydreamland.

**********

I was in the fourth grade. My class was putting on a production of Homer’s Odyssey and I was cast in the part of Hermes, the Messenger of Zeus. I didn’t think much of it. Everyone in the class had a part. Our parents were allowed to come see us, and quite a few did. My mom came. My dad couldn’t get off work.

I remember that I only had a few lines and that I was very nervous for my teacher and my mom to see me on our makeshift classroom-stage. For some reason, I was particularly fascinated with my costume. It wasn’t much, but I remember a crown of some sort and I had these special shoes that had wings attached to them. I thought that was the coolest thing….

**********

Mr. Brown booming voice came back into focus. “Now, your final papers will be due on the last day of class. I’ve already handed out the topics and everyone now has one. I’ll expect them to be very thought-provoking!”

Sometimes his optimism, particularly when directed toward us students, was incorrigible.

He looked at his watch and closed his copy of the Republic. “I’ll see ya next time.”

And then…chaos. Students hurrying up to grab their belongings and get out of the seat that had held them captive for ten minutes too long. Cell phones going off. Girls in their spring dresses chatting in the hallways. “Look what I got for my birthday! Don’t you just loooove it! Are you going to formal?” Guys planning skirmishes on the court.

Ordinarily, I walked through the halls—right down the middle. A smile here, a wave there, but utterly observant. The hallway was Midtown Manhattan while the classroom had been, for fifty minutes, a monastery atop Mt. Athos. I thought that if I remained silent while in the hall, I would be able to keep the monasticism a while longer. “But the great man is he who, in the midst of the crowd, keeps with perfect sweetness the silence of solitude.” That’s what Emerson said. I was on a mission to see if I could actually do it.

But I would not get that chance today because Mr. Brown asked to see me right after class. The chaos would have to wait.

He waited for me approach as he engaged in his after-class ritual of erasing the chalkboard. “How’s your paper coming along, Parker?”

I hadn’t done much work on it at that point. “Pretty good. Would it be weird if I used Joan of Arc to represent the ‘call to duty’ in the ‘Allegory?’”

He paused for a second to gather his thoughts and then gave his blessing. “Sounds good to me. Just make sure that you back it up with Plato. And some other experts [I’ve written a few books, you know, that you could quote from] wouldn’t hurt either.”

He paused for another minute.

“You know, Parker, you have a furtive mind. It’s certainly one of the best I have seen in an undergrad. Keep up the good work!”

I didn’t know what to say. “Thank you, Mr. Brown. Coming from you, that’s quite a compliment.”

“Just don’t become like some of the other professors at this school, not open to basic intellectual discourse. It’s one thing to know that you have something of importance that may benefit mankind. But it’s completely another to be cognizant of others’ contributions and demonstrating a willingness to help others get to where they want to be.”

All of my preconceived notions about his inflated self-image just washed away. “Just like Plato’s ‘Allegory?’”

“Exactly!” He smiled and was silent. He grabbed his belongings and walked out of the classroom.

I grabbed my things as well, not exactly sure what had just happened. Why did he feel the need to tell me that I had a furtive mind? Does this mean that my paper had to be especially good or he would call me up on a Saturday afternoon to have a special meeting at his office for the expressed purpose of how it could be more “original?” Nonetheless, feedback from professors like Mr. Brown was certainly something I appreciated. At this school, everyone is brilliant, so when a professor calls you out, it means you have somehow impacted him or her with the kind of “furtive” activity that is reserved for people who are masters at whatever art they choose to participate in. Assuming that I continue on this path to become a political theorist, it would certainly be helpful to have people like Mr. Brown encouraging me. I am not saying that was something I wanted to pursue at that moment, but the window certainly seemed to be open.

As I walked down the hall, my thoughts about a career in political theory vanished as a flashback from this morning’s dream that had startled me from sleep reentered my brain. I couldn’t make heads or tales of it, but I wanted to at least get to the point where I wasn’t spending all of my time obsessing over the details.

Help me out, Plato!