I have a rule for myself in freshman English that I don’t assign readings that require much explanation. If I continually have to provide background of a work’s history and context, it means the students are awaiting a deus ex machina, AI or me to summarize and simplify. I seek out readings that feature conversational voices that create an immediate, imaginable world that my students can understand on their own—that is, read.
Every year, though, I make one exception to this rule and assign either Sophocles’s Oedipus the King or Antigone. They don’t get any easier, no matter how many times I teach them, but they’re worth the effort because they’re sublime, and the range of topics they provide us for discussion and writing seems inexhaustible and ever relevant. In fall 2024, with the presidential election looming, I assigned Antigone.
“Before we start … you know family trees? I need to show you Antigone’s.” I began drawing on the whiteboard the Oedipus family tree from the bottom. “Antigone and her siblings—Ismene, Polynices, Eteocles. Their parents: Jocasta and Oedipus. Up here, Jocasta’s parents: Menoeceus and Ms. Unknown. Oedipus’s parents, Laertes and Jocasta, are over here. And because they’re characters from Greek myth and legend, we can keep going back—”
“Professor!” calls out Varna. “You made a mistake. Jocasta can’t be Oedipus’s mother, too—right? … Right?”
“Actually …”
“He can’t have children with his mother.”
“Shouldn’t have. ”
“Mm?”
Even before the pandemic, I had given up assigning Oedipus and Antigone as homework reading. In my classes, we read Sophocles together. On paper, out loud. “Put away your devices, please. We’re going really old-school—ancient Greek school.”
Although some of my community college students have shaky English or discomfort with speaking aloud, at some point in our halting and struggling reading we catch the play’s spirit and profundity and are knocked back on our heels. Marie, despite her thick accent, whether reading Antigone or Creon, is inspired and masterful. Is it the theatricality or simply having to communicate the words on the page that guide her into clearer enunciation?
Bewildered Samuel, meanwhile, eventually finds his footing and delightedly embodies the comic outlook of the Sentry. Everybody reads, taking turns with the roles. We are mostly patient with one another, and we dig in as anxious Tina loses heart and her voice notches down into her shoes and her classmates cheer her on and plead with her to speak up. The students’ encouragement of and aid to one another helps me limit my interventions, though I still continually interject with vocabulary definitions or references or to explicate idiomatic expressions or pose obvious questions to check in on comprehension. I pause us after a character’s thrilling or brilliant statement and ask them to quote this or that for us to ponder in writing.
Reading aloud in a community college classroom is less a pleasure cruise than a field trip through a museum.
During my recent sabbatical, while working on a biography of Max Schott, an author, one of my old teachers and my friend, I was, as must happen to some professors on leave, missing the classroom. So as a supplement to or diversion from my daily notes and questions to Max, I wrote scenes for a few weeks in the form of a play of what I remembered and imagined of what it was like to teach Oedipus the King, from the first day through the next several class sessions. Max regularly expressed enjoyment over the daily installments. That was my reward, praise from my mentor. Still, at the end, I told him on the phone that it was nice to be done.
He said, “You’re not done.”
“Yeah, I am. I even imagined them through the essay and the drafts!”
“But what about Oedipus at Colonus and Antigone?”
“Oh, I’d never try to teach those with Oedipus in the same semester. It’s freshman English.”
“Why not?”
“Well, they’re supposed to read essays and articles, too, and in real life the students themselves wouldn’t let me.”
“You’re making it up anyway!” he laughed.
I resisted for a week. I had just about finished the biography and the subject of the biography, my own mentor, was encouraging me to go on, write more about my imaginary classroom. No one else was asking for more from me.
I reread what I had, about 150 single-spaced pages, half of which, I should say, were composed by Sophocles. I can compare my contribution to the play within a play to a quirky improvisational movie in which the soundtrack is a series of movements from Mozart’s string quartets. Whatever else is going on, the music—in my case, Sophocles’s Oedipus the King—carries a lot of intelligence and feeling.
But Max was right—the imaginary semester wasn’t over. So for Act 2, the students having finished writing their essays, the teacher character, Bob, brings in a box of stapled copies of Oedipus at Colonus. The imagined students surprise me and are much more game than I thought possible. We proceed, not unhappily, and with interesting discussions (I thought) through Oedipus’s fateful disappearance from this land of suffering. Typing up the “transcript” of my students reading Oedipus at Colonus, I occasionally felt as if I, the writer, not the teacher character, was going through the motions for Max’s sake. Each day, pen on paper, I would reread and revise the previous day’s pages and then go on, writing by hand, through another several pages, and then type and email them off to Max. He and I were still talking once or twice a week by phone about his writing and life and about books, and he didn’t complain that the quality of my made-up classes had dropped off; hence, I knew I had to continue through Antigone. By the end of a semester’s classes, I had imagined me and my students through the three plays.
Then I started going through old emails that I had sent Max about my real-life classes. These had been written, usually, on my phone on the subway home after my day’s teaching. “Don’t explain,” Max had often told us, his writing students, back in the day. “See if you can reveal the characters mostly through what they say.” And there, in those emails, I found my unimaginary students and me, my unimaginary self, acting sort of like the ones I’d made up.
For example (I’ve changed their names and identifying information, but not, unfortunately, mine):
Bob: Do we need to go over the characters in Antigone again?
Tawny: Do we? I don’t.
Bob: Who’s Creon?
Class: …
Tawny: (sighs) The king!
Bob: Thank you … Anything else about him?
Ashley: Antigone’s uncle?
Bob: Yes! … Remember, we talked about identities. Paul?
Paul: No.
Bob: We didn’t?
Jason: We did!
Paul: Then I don’t remember. What’s identities anyway?
Bob: We all have different identities depending on where we are … Here, I’m a …
Class: …
Bob: Right! A teacher. At home I’m Suzanne’s husband. Just like you’re in a role at home and another role at work and another here.
Tawny: And so?
Bob: In your paper, as a character yourself, you’re going to have to talk to one of the characters as they are at the end of the play … So where are they, what are they, when the play ends?
Marcus: Creon’s alive.
Bob: Right! And you can’t say that for …
Ryann: Antigone.
Bob: Right! Or … Haemon or … Eurydice. But the play is over, and you have to talk to one of them—whether they’re dead, down in Hades, or alive in Thebes—about this same topic as my morning class did—the purpose of life.
Marcus: But they’re dead.
Bob: We’re just imagining it. They all do have some hard-won experience, right? Imagine yourself talking to one of them. All right? … How about Antigone? What do you remember about her?
Tawny: She’s dead.
Bob: Yeah … What else? … Did we really forget the play over the weekend?
Kaylia: (nods)
Bob: Can anybody summarize it?
Zeina: We have to summarize it?
Bob: No … But can somebody just say what happens—in a nutshell, a tiny summary—so that we have that magic word “context” before we write? (Bob points at the word “context” at the board, from the lesson at the beginning of class time, when the six on-time students and he read Karl Ove Knausgaard’s essay “Conversation.”) Context, anybody?
Tawny: Her brothers died.
Bob: Yeah. And …?
Tawny: She buried one of them.
Ryann: But against the law.
Bob: Right! Remember, guys? Let’s go back to Creon’s big speech near the beginning. That’ll remind us who he is and what he thinks of himself and the world. Ryann?
Ryann: (reads Creon’s speech about “our Ship of State, which recent storms have threatened to destroy …”)
Bob: What is Creon asking the citizens, the old men of Thebes, to do?
Niege: Guard the body.
Bob: He’s got professional soldiers for that. He asks them for one thing. What is it?
Ryann: To stick with him.
Olya: Loyalty.
Bob: What’s that word, Olya?
Olya: Loyalty.
Juan: No matter what, you back them.
Bob: Got it! Creon doesn’t need them for service. He needs them to support him no matter what he does.
Tawny: They’re in his corner.
Bob: Yes. He wants that assurance from them—and they give it. Do you think he knows he’s going to violate divine law? … Yeah, Paul?
Paul: If we’re gonna write—
Bob: We’re going to write.
Paul: I forgot my pen.
Bob Blaisdell teaches English at Kingsborough Community College.
