Overheard at a Classical school

It was a typical Wednesday for me. 

I started the day by answering emails from the previous evening, and I had a tour scheduled in the morning. In the time of COVID, tours are a smaller affair, but they remain a favorite part of my job. On tours, we get to go into classrooms and observe teachers and students in their element. We walk around the hallways and see students interacting with each other and teachers greeting them between periods. 

Part of why I treasure tours so much is because, every once in a while, I get to observe something that is real magic. Whether it’s a joy-filled grammar class where they’re making up absurd sentences or a class full of kindergarten students discussing what it means to be a good friend, I walk away from those classes reminded of why I do what I do. I go into the rest of my day with a renewed understanding of why I chose, and continue to choose, a classical school. 

I hope this story gives you a similar feeling. Considering I have no shortage of these kinds of tales, you can look forward to hearing more like this one very soon. 

Anyways, the families arrive for the tour, and we get started in 9th grade Rhetoric. Now, this time of year is particularly classical for Rhetoric students. They are working on their semester project: writing a speech in which they assert which virtue is best.

This particular day, the students were answering a gauntlet of questions from their teacher designed to push the way they think about virtue. He warned them that it’s meant to be hard, and the more questions they get right, the more the subsequent questions will increase in difficulty. 

After moving through a few questions, they arrived at a juicy one: What is it that draws us to beautiful things? What makes them beautiful? 

At first, there was silence. But then, slowly, a few hands rose, and the answers started coming. There were a few brave attempts. Some of the answers touched on aesthetic appeal. Some of them hinted at the sense of peace we feel in the presence of beauty.

“Well, it makes me think of art. I look at that picture, and I know it’s beautiful - not just because of the way it looks but because it’s not something I can do yet…

…I’d love to be able to paint like that someday or to do what Socrates did.”

Then, a student that I know well raised his hand, gestured at the famous painting of The Death of Socrates hanging on the wall and said: 

“Well, it makes me think of art. I look at that picture, and I know it’s beautiful - not just because of the way it looks but because it’s not something I can do yet. I’d love to be able to paint like that someday or to be as brave as Socrates.”

This comment completely changed the course of the conversation because the students suddenly saw, embodied on the wall in front of their eyes, what it meant to be beautiful. You see, Socrates died a heroic death. The corrupt elites in Athens wrongly accused him of impiety and sentenced him to death. When pressed to renounce his beliefs and live, he declined. When encouraged to flee his cell by night, he chose to stay. As he told his friends, he would not turn coward merely to save his own skin. When at last he was forced to drink poison — the scene which this painting depicts — none in Athens could claim to love Justice more than Socrates.

This 9th grade student showed us why beauty is indeed attractive in a profound way. Things that are truly beautiful attract us because they inspire us to embody something higher. They challenge us to make ourselves more than we currently are.

In the case of this picture, our 9th grade student was remarking on the nature of the death of Socrates as well as the skill of the painter in depicting it. Beauty is not just something that looks good or makes us feel good. Beauty, authentic beauty, pushes us to operate in our highest, most heroic capacities.

Pretty soon my tour was over. I walked the families back to the front lobby, answered their questions about the school, and made sure they had my contact information. 

But when I returned to my desk, I couldn’t help but wonder: what if every classroom was like this? What if every classroom took the time to have these kinds of conversations?

Maybe the students won’t remember that moment tomorrow, or a year from now. But I would be willing to bet that someday their understanding of beauty and the weight it holds in our world will be tested. 

When that happens, I hope they remember their 9th grade Rhetoric class and the valiant death of Socrates.