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| When homework time makes you feel like this, you need a little Aristotle in your life. |
“Am I done with reading?”
“How many more minutes?”
“Am I done?”
Time is of the essence . . . especially for a child whose homework is assigned in time form. Read for 20 minutes, dictates one assignment book, Play for at least 15 minutes a day, reads another.
“No,” I reply, feeling a transformation into Mr. Hyde coming on, “You still have a few more minutes.”
This repeated question day in and day out seems to take on that rhythmic quality of a metronome, but actually, I can feel it slowly mortifying my brain into blood-orange marmalade, just like those other great existential questions I have faced with increasing frequency since I took my first initiation rites into parenthood —
Are we there yet?
Why?Why not?
“ . . .How ‘bout now. Am I done yet?”
Sigh. Welcome to a new school year.
The strange thing is, my irritation at the question actually masks an even bigger anxiety. My fear is rekindled at the turn of every new year: when, if ever, will my daughter’s passion for a subject be ignited? When will her motivation to wrestle with the problems set before her become internalized? When will the process of learning become its own reward?
Last week, as the showdown between the clock and the homework, (not to mention my temper and my better judgment) began, I sensed Aristotle’s specter passing through the room wearing dark sunglasses and a solemn frown, shaking its head slowly as it passed through the garage wall.
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| Aristotle (right) and Plato (left) in Raphael's The School of Athens. |
"Eudiamonia can’t be taught,” it said in a whisper, coolly touching my shoulder, “only self-cultivated in fertile soil.”
“I know, man,” I said under my breath without realizing it. “I know.”
“Mom?” Both kids had looked up at me from their activities, half bemused, half concerned. I could tell by their faces that they were wondering who I was talking to this time.
“Never mind,” I replied. “This time I’m just communing with my favorite Greek philosopher.”
Eudiamonia. It roughly translates from Greek into the term flourishing — and was used by Aristotle in the Nicomachean Ethics to name the state in which all human capacities are in perfect balance.
The happy life, Aristotle argued, is determined by excellence in one’s activities, because "Excellent activities or their opposites are what determine human happiness or the reverse. […] no function of man [sic] has so much permanence as excellent activities (these are thought to be more durable even than knowledge)."
Excellent activities are not purely those with good ends, though of course doing good for its own sake is a noble activity. But excellence is also a way of approaching the tasks one is faced with, a will to do the very best one is capable of for its own sake:
For the man [sic] who is truly good and wise, we think, bears all the chances of life becomingly and always makes the best of circumstances, as a good general makes the best military use of the army at his command and a shoemaker makes the best shoes out of the hides that are given him; and so with all other craftsmen.[i]
And learners, too. A couple weeks ago, when I asked my first year advisees to write an educational autobiography, two of them wrote histories illustrating Aristotelian excellence.
Micah described how when he was in the third grade he worked long and hard on a portrait of his teacher. With markers he “detailed every eyelash and pore” of her face, completely absorbed in making the image of her as wonderful as he thought she was. When he showed his mom the final work, she pointed out that it lacked a neck. Instead of being disappointed in her response, or angry in himself (or fate) for not doing it correctly, he turned right back around and started the portrait again from scratch. “I wanted her to be perfect,” he said.
Micah described how when he was in the third grade he worked long and hard on a portrait of his teacher. With markers he “detailed every eyelash and pore” of her face, completely absorbed in making the image of her as wonderful as he thought she was. When he showed his mom the final work, she pointed out that it lacked a neck. Instead of being disappointed in her response, or angry in himself (or fate) for not doing it correctly, he turned right back around and started the portrait again from scratch. “I wanted her to be perfect,” he said.
Eudiamonia, baby.
Caroline also told a personal narrative that would have earned her props from Aristotle. She had signed up for an A.P. English class fall semester of her senior year, intent on working harder than she ever had for a course, just to prove to herself that she could. She wrote on Dostoyevsky, the final product being “a good paper. One of the best papers I’ve ever written,” as she told us. The teacher gave it a failing grade. “She didn’t receive it on the snow day it was due even though I had sent it, and considered it late.” While formally challenging the grade through the rest of the year, Caroline didn’t become embittered or even feel the grade reflected her competencies. “I showed it to anybody who was interested in seeing it, knowing it was good work.”
Aristotle is right, we cannot teach eudiamonia — only give it recognition it when it expresses itself in our homes and classrooms.
. . . and as I become more fearful that my daughter may never experience the pleasure of hard work, may never cultivate excellence in her activities, or thereby reach eudiamonia, she undermines my slightly-over-the-top idealism yet again.
“Mom,” she says, having closed her homework folder. “Can we read some more of Elizabeth’s Royal Diary later?”“Absolutely,” I reply, coming out of my reverie. We picked up several of The Royal Diaries last week, and had started reading about Queen Elizabeth I’s life in the 16th century over the past few nights. Although written for a slightly older reading group, Miss S. seemed to be enjoying them . . . asking as many questions as there were sentences in each entry, actually.
“Perhaps you can read a couple entries and then I can read some,” I suggest.
She looks at me quite solemnly. “No Mom. I want to read the whole thing by myself.”
From the garage (or is it my heart?) I can hear Aristotle's specter softly doing the jig. "Sounds like a wonderful idea," I reply.
[i] Nichomachean Ethics lines 1105b-1130b. The Complete Works of Aristotle. Jonathan Barnes, Editor. Volume Two.
