Examining Campus Cults Part 2: Classics
Last week, when we examined the “Cross Country Cult” on this page, a reference to Coach Nicholas Unger mysteriously disappeared somewhere between The Exonian office and the printer. Although we might fob this off as sloppy editing, in reality we know it is an example of the power of the undeniable leader of the “Classics Cult.”
Entering a Latin classroom, it is clear that the space is considered sacred, as each room seems untouched by time. The walls are covered not by whiteboards nor even by retro blackboards, but that weird 1970s-era green-colored board, for which there is no commonly recognized term. This is obviously fitting for the study of dead languages, although there seems to be some controversy over the subjects’ state of decomposition. When asked why he studied ancient languages no one bothered to speak in this day and age, Pepper Pieroni cryptically answered: “We’ve resurrected them.”
Classics students complain ceaselessly of their suffering but, apparently brainwashed, keep crawling back for more. And what exactly are they cramming into their brains? This reporter observed a study group organized by Calvin Henaku ominously chanting “substantive clause of volition,” “future less vivid,” and exclaiming with delight over the discovery of such choice morsels as “the ablative of time when and within which,” all while translating a passage about some unlucky fellow’s genitalia being crushed.
Such activities suggest there may be truth behind the rumor that students use the replica Roman weapons stored in the Classics wing in secret gladiatorial fights staged in the Latin Study (no wonder they always keep it locked) for the entertainment of Trustees. Other disturbing activities include tournaments in which prizes are given to those who can name, for instance, the infant whose father pierced his feet and abandoned him on a mountain to die, final projects devoted to studying a ritual involving the immolation of prisoners of war in giant human-shaped wicker cages, and entire weeks given over to poking in the dirt under the scorching Mediterranean sun in search of broken plates.