In my high school, the better students, in the two Academic class sections, received instruction in Latin in 9th and 10th grade. Our Latin teacher had a curious personal custom. He sacrificed annually, in honor of Great Caesar, on the Ides of March, the male student in each class who had offended him by doing the least work and/or being the most disruptive. He sacrificed additionally one female student from each class whose selection, I fear, was based only upon his own capricious whim and covert sexual attraction.
The sacrifice consisted of the victim being bent over a desk and receiving three strokes of a paddle, delivered by a six foot+, 250 lb.+ Latin teacher laying on the strokes with a will and putting his weight behind them. (I wonâ€™t name him.) Mr. Xâ€™s paddle was a four foot long piece of 1 1/2â€³ thick pine, produced in our high schoolâ€™s wood shop by General Curriculum students, who did not take Latin, but admired Mr. X. The paddle was roughly in the form of a Roman gladius, and its surface was scored by a series of regular lines, because it was generally believed that a blow from an uneven surface was more painful.
Mr. X had a fixed policy of assigning the duty of construing the dayâ€™s Latin assignment on the blackboard in strict and completely predictable order, going up and down the aisles of desks. Two or three of the smart kids would always actually do the Latin, (I was one of them) and it was our recognized duty to supply the translations in advance to the person who would be going to the blackboard.
Readiness to translate correctly was really vital, because Mr. X would apply his dreaded paddle to anyone who failed to write out the dayâ€™s assignment correctly on the blackboard. It was rare, but every once in a while some truly feckless idiot would neglect to seek out Kenny Hollenbach, Jack Rigrotsky, or yours truly, and would arrive at the blackboard, chalk in hand, unprepared.
Mr. X typically broke the current paddle over the defaulterâ€™s posterior, and the mental defectives in shop class would gleefully commence the fabrication of a new, yet more elaborate, edition of the famous paddle.
Every March 15th, two 9th and 10th grade Academic Curriculum sections would look on with the same sadistic interest of Roman spectators at the gladitorial games, as Mr. X conducted his sacrifices. I can recall that he struck the pretty strawberry blonde with the well-developed embonpoint so hard that he raised dust from her skirt. We were a bit puzzled that girls actually submitted to being beaten with a paddle for no reason, but all this went on undoubtedly because the legend of Mr. X the fierce disciplinarian had enormous appeal in our local community. The whole thing was fascinating, and it all made such a good story that everyone, student and adult, in his heart of hearts, enthusiastically approved.
Mr. X would never be allowed to get away with that kind of thing today. Alas! In Hades, poor Caesar must do without his sacrifice. And it is my impression that Latin instruction has rather overwhelmingly also become a thing of the past. Kids today learn Spanish. Modern languages are easier and are thought more relevant.
My high school Latin teacher is the large chap wearing glasses. He also coached one of our sports teams.
An annual post in memory of my Latin teacher.
” one female student from each class whose selection, I fear, was based only upon his own capricious whim and covert sexual attraction.”
You say that like it is a bad thing. Biology/nature has created women to arouse sexual desire. While men can be good looking or fit women can be so much more; beautiful, desirable, feminine, lovely, titillating, graceful, desirable, seductive, and so much more. Our modern society tries to downplay this fact of life but it exists never the less.
ed in texas
I took latin in high school, too. It wasn’t as , uh, physical as in the article. God help me, I can still conjugate a verb in latin.
My sons also ‘latinated’ in their day. They had toga parties. I went to the wrong school.
I wish my school had offered Latin–I was weird enough (longhaired, dope-smoking, motorcycle-addicted redneck, one of the bunch known as “freaks” back then, and we were proud of the title).
Rural Tennessee didn’t have the money for Latin, & probably saw no need for it. We didn’t have the money for Driver Education classes, either. Nobody needed them, as by junior high we already could drive farm trucks, tractors, & anything else we could start, but some of us wanted it for the insurance break.
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