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Dear Polity,

Christmas was a little bit of a letdown in the Casa de Cox this year, so in or-der to make up for it, I have decided to publish a list of things that I want(ed). I know you all love me very much, so don’t feel bad if I get two of the same thing. I love multiples. And if you don’t have the time to get me anything, just send cash. Tens and twenties are fine. Please use my campus mail to give me my gifts.

Post-Christmas list:• Spartan Jersey• Rajon Rondo Jersey (XXXL)• Thermos• A lion co!ee-table book• Signed picture of Terence

E. Washington, preferably with him looking hipster and smoking a cigarette.

• Package of assorted nips• The opportunity to give the

“Bodies in Motion” pre-March Madness lecture

• Druid captain arm band• 12 Thai donuts• 4 Croquet balls• 3 Pretzel logs• 2 Cold beers

And a coozie in my hand.

Sincerely, Hunter Cox, A’13, Druid captain for life.

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T"# G$%&'(02

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Founded in 1980, the Gadfly is the student newsmagazine distributed to over 600 students, faculty, and sta! of the Annapolis campus.Opinions expressed within are the sole responsibility of the author(s). The Gadfly reserves the right to ac-cept, reject, and edit submissions in any way necessary to publish a professional, informative, and thought-provoking newsmagazine.The Gadfly meets every Sunday at 7 PM in the first lower level of the Barr-Buchanan Center.Articles should be submitted by Friday at 11:59 PM to sjca.gadfly@gmail.com.

Nathan Goldman • Editor-in-ChiefIan Tuttle • Editor-in-Chief

Hayden Pendergrass • Layout EditorReza Djalal • Photographer

Sasha Welm • CartoonistJonathan Barone • Sta!

Will Brown • Sta!Andrew Kriehn • Sta!Robert Malka • Sta!

Sarah Meggison • Sta! Kevin Morris • Sta!Charles Zug • Sta!

S$*--

C,'$+16%$,+#Hunter Cox

Ernest HeinmullerJerry Januszewski

Danny KraftPainter Bob

Samuel WeinbergSteve Weinstein

! Painter Bob!"#$%&'()*+%,)

!"#$%%&"'(#)&("$*("+),*$-"%./01%2"."#%3)&"13%$"%4"(.5$*$%"#(("$*("5.,)2,"#$%5+".5)#(+-"6%78"$%"/2%7"+-"+($$3(9#"7%5$*$*("#/-",5(7"&.5/".2&"%+)2%0#+-"+)2&"#1.5/(&"'5),*$"7)$*)2$%"7.$:*"$*("3),*$2)2,":5%##"$*("#/-7*(5(")$"#$50:/"."'3%7"+%#$"4.)5'0$"%*"!"#$%%&"+-"6),)3";5+.#"15%0&"01%2"+-"*(.&.2%$*(5"'%3$"&(#:(2&(&"4.#$

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$%"+./("."&%2/(-"'5.-

How did you come to be a tutor at St. John’s? I learned about the College when I was a graduate student in Chicago in the 1980’s, and I wanted to become a tutor so that I could continue learning without boundaries. So I applied to both campuses, but neither of them appointed me. That was for the best, for shortly thereafter I found a new career in a world elsewhere that lasted with pleasure for over a decade. At that time the communist regimes in Eastern Europe were falling, one after another, and teachers from the West in the social sciences and humanities were urgently requested by the new democratic governments. I remember attending a con-ference of the Modern Language Association in late Decem-ber of 1989 in Washington, D.C. Most of the nation’s graduate students of literature and modern language attend this con-ference to be interviewed for scarce faculty positions, and our nation’s literary scholars descend upon it to present papers to one another and to conduct the interviews. At that time their papers were devoted mostly to theories unintelligible to me and to tedious discourses of oppression. In the evenings I followed televised reports of the Romanian revolution, which had turned violent and led to the execution of the Ceausescus by firing squad on Christmas day. That was thrilling and in-telligible. I concluded then and there that I would rather be teaching literature in Romania than participating at an MLA Conference anywhere in America.

So I went abroad, first to Romania, then to Czechoslovakia (which split into two countries while I was there—I taught in both), and finally to Kyrgyzstan in Central Asia. I taught American studies and western civilization to students who were free of Marxist-Leninist ideology for the first time. I would have been pleased to continue that career, but the world changed again on September 11, 2001. I remember drinking beer that evening in a German pub in Bishkek, capitol of Kyr-gyzstan, with an Iranian exile (party of the Shah) to discuss a trip I was planning to Iran. On the taxi ride home I was able to make out from the Russian news on the radio and the gesticulations of the excited cab driver that something terrible had just happened in New York and Washington, where it was morning. When I got home my wife was sitting in the hall crying. I watched those images on TV of the twin towers col-lapsing, over and over again—unbelievable—and I knew that I would not be going to Iran and that the world which had been

to me free and open was going to close. So I applied again for a position at St. John’s, where I still knew I belonged, and from half-way around the world I came for an interview in January of 2002. In April I received an appointment, and here I am. The books and our conversations about them keep me here.

What classes are you teaching this year?I am teaching freshman seminar (for only the second time), sophomore math, and junior language.

What was the biggest adventure you’ve ever had? Oh boy, that’s hard to say. My guardian angel has been kept pretty busy. I recently spent a year teaching mathematics and biology in northern Iraq (in the Kurdish city of Sulaimani), and just trying to find my way through the labyrinthine bazaar felt adventurous. I loved the sights, smells, and sounds of the bazaar—getting lost in them—not knowing what I might find. How boring Safeway and Giant seem by comparison. My son found spent cartridges from AK-47’s and helmets with bullet holes in the hills around the city. War felt close there. The Kurds, you should know, are more like the Spartans than the Athenians, keener to fight from the mountain caves than to philosophize in the classroom. I won my combative students over when I resorted to banging my head against the black-board.

Teaching in Eastern Europe and Central Asia was also an ongoing adventure, especially that first year in Romania, after the revolution. I used to walk the two miles to the univer-sity dragging a stick behind me to keep o! the wild dogs. The Chairman of my department, whose support of the old Stalin-ist regime had gained him his position and privileges—now that that regime was gone, tried to engage me to his daughter. The Romanian people were desperate to get fully out from un-der the rock of tyranny, which had crippled the country, and some thought I had the right passport to deliver them. It was a good thing I had been briefed upon my arrival by the Cul-tural A!airs O"cer of our Embassy, who had time to impart to this single American male only one piece of emphatic advice: “Stay away from the Romanian women. They are all _____.” So I played the part of the Gentleman Caller to the Romanian Lauras to whom I taught American drama, raising their hopes for the future and then leaving as free as ever, until a few years

T#$ G%&'() 03

!"!"#$%&!$'

!"#$%&%#'#()*Mr. Louis Petrich

Continued On Pg. 04

T!" G#$%&'04Continued From Pg. 03later I married a fellow American while serving in the Peace Corps, and “when two go together”—well, you know, you tend to keep your head on straight. (Perhaps when we’re quite o( the record, I’ll tell you what happened on my first trip to Is-tanbul, when all I had to guide me was a map as I went looking around for a good belly dancing show.) My steady adventures these days are supplied by the program of this College and the waters of the Caribbean, both of which I like to dive into all I can. Learning to breathe calmly when you are in over your head is a very good thing to know.

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! Ernest Heinmuller, A’42

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It’s easy to think of the call to “the examined life” as a mascu-line endeavor. I’ve seen the quote tattooed on a man’s arm,

heard it in locker room speeches, and felt its tug on my own soul. A famous line from Hamlet is similarly evocative: “This above all: to thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.” These heroic sentiments can make even a hardened man shed a tear, as he recognizes a worthy First Principle. But feeling sympa-thy toward the examined life is one thing; actually living it is another.

Years ago I worked for a rehab program at the county jail. Inmates frequently tested me for my street cred (of which I had none). Some of the cops working there hassled me as well. Word got out I had studied philosophy, and this added to the perception I was bookish, with no street smarts. This work sit-uation exposed to me some of my hidden shame: doubts I had about whether I was man enough to deal with real life tough guys. So I searched for ways to prove my manly mettle to the others, even as I doubted I had any. When I was invited to train alongside the cops in some of their special maneuvers, I was eager to do it.

Now here was something in my wheel-house, I thought: running and jumping and generally being athletic. I’m going to show those cops a thing or two! We were taken to a huge structure with no windows that simulated the dark interior of a building on fire. Inside was a crazy labyrinth through which each of us was expected to crawl, feeling our way through the pitch-dark with our hands. I was keenly aware of all the cops watching when I took my turn.

It didn’t go well. With a big oxygen tank on my back, I could barely move through the claustrophobic crawl-space. The twists and turns were designed to disorient, and within 60 seconds I wasn’t exactly sure which way was up. There were dead-ends, which meant I had to inch my way out backwards. This I did, but sometimes into another dead-end. My hands searched for an acceptable opening in any di-rection. My throat felt choked. They had warned me: control your breathing, or else fear will get the best of you.

Fear did get the best of me, and I banged on the wall: the signal for rescue needed. Hidden doors opened, and in a few seconds I felt a hand on my collar pulling me out. Outside the building, I ripped o! the oxygen mask and gulped fresh air. I was drenched in sweat, my hands shaking. The cops thought this was hilarious. I felt humiliated; my shame in full view to those I sought to impress. I wanted to disappear. But, after gathering my emotions, I forced myself to try again.

Going back again into that dark, stifling hot building was one of the hardest things I ever did.

But my resistance to do it was not because of the ordeal of completing the maze, di"cult though that was. I was more terrified to place myself in a position where my personal shame was exposed, and this has everything to do with the di"culty

of living the examined life. There is an unavoidable ambivalence connected to the path

of self-discovery. We’re drawn to the unexplored within and also frightened by it. Accepting the call to an examined life is heroic, because it is a call to go beyond fear to freedom. Refus-ing the call means remaining, in some sense, a slave. Eva Brann goes further, noting in her Gadfly article (Vol. 34, Issue 6) that the unexamined life is not merely not worth living, but it is al-ready dead: “the unsearched-out life is unlivable...you’re a grey shade, in Hades before your time.”

Considering our attraction to the examined life, and the dreadful consequences of refusing the call, why do we feel any resistance to seeking and embracing our true and free selves? One explanation concerns the experience of human shame, common to all. Feelings of shame are a torment to the soul. If self-examination threatens to reveal agonizing shame, then re-sistance to this process begins to make sense. Felt shame is an enemy to personal freedom, because it squashes the impulse for the examined life.

Dr. Ernest Kurtz, in his concise and brilliant book, Shame & Guilt, states that both guilt and shame involve feeling “bad”

about something. They di!er in that we feel a pang of guilt over something we do, while we feel the ache of shame over something we are. Shame is the per-ception of an ugly flaw within our own being, an inherent defect that makes us uniquely worse than other people. We may feel embarrassed because some-one sees our misdeeds (guilt), but we feel humiliated when someone sees our shame.

So we go to great lengths to hide our shame from others and from ourselves. Often we develop an ideal self, a comforting version of ourselves we imagine with-out the shame, which we also present to the world. This is an understandable strategy for suppressing feelings of shame, but a deeply flawed one for pursuing the examined life.

Despite feeling enormous resistance, I attempted the dark maze again, and this time I controlled my breathing better. After 15 minutes of steady progress, I reached the end and emerged into the sunshine. Again I ripped my mask o!, this time in triumph, but there wasn’t a single cop there to witness my victory, except for the trainer supervising my e!ort. They’d all gone in for lunch.

I’m grateful now that none of the cops were there to see me complete the maze successfully, because that forced me wres-tle with my internal shame, not my superficial embarrassment. The examined life demanded I honestly face how I felt about myself, apart from any observer. Facing this shame was much harder, and much more fruitful, than merely proving some-thing to others.

This was a pivotal turning point for me for examining my true self and finding some freedom in the examined life—a call that is neither masculine nor feminine, but human. !

!"#$%&#'(&)"%&*+#$,'%(&-,.%T#$ G%&'() 05

Jerry Januszewski Counselor

“We’re drawn to the unex-plored within and also fright-ened by it. Accepting the call to an examined life is heroic, because it is a call to go be-yond fear to freedom. Refus-ing the call means remaining, in some sense, a slave.

In the January issue of Poetry Ilya Kaminsky discusses the “wreckage” of language. When a poet twists the syntax of his mother tongue, Ka-

minsky says, he can create a “strange lyricism” wherein solitude, ten-sion, and the poet’s natural privacy all express themselves in a way that alarms us into awareness. “What is the purpose of poetry?” the Polish poet Zbigniew Herbert was once asked. He answered: “to wake up.”

To illustrate this point Kaminsky includes his translation of the first lines of Genesis. But this translation is really a strange transformation; he reverses the word order in each line, and finds a strange foreign poem hiding in “a text we know by heart.” “And there was light let there be God,” reads the beginning of the third verse in its new inverted form.

When I read this I decided to experiment with similar transforma-tions of other Biblical texts. Here is my rough rendering of Psalm 42, our beloved “Sicut Cervus.” It seems to me both completely foreign and perfectly at home in the world of the psalms. But does it wake you up at all, or any more than the psalm in conventional translation would? I’m curious to hear what you think. Please email me at daniel.kraft@sjca.edu with any reflections.

God for you longs my soul astoward water brooks like the deergod of face and I will see I will come whenliving god to god my soul thirstsyour god where all day in sayingnight and day bread my tears were to mecelebrate so many and thanks in a voice of joygod to the house I slowly moved in the multitudeI went for my soul on me I spill I remember thesehis face salvations I will praise yetfor god have hope in me and lowered downmy soul why are you downcastfrom Mount Mizar and Hermon Jordan from the land I remember you thereforedowncast my soul in me my godpassed over me and your waves all your billowsyour spouts to the voice calleddeep to deepmy life to god a prayerwith me his song and in the nighthis lovingkindness the lord will command by dayenemy in oppression I walk mourningyou have forgotten me why my rock to god I sayyour god where every day to me in sayingmy foes in my bones in murderand my god my face salvationsI will praise yet forgod have hope in me and lowered downmy soul why are you downcast

Danny Kraft A’13Have you ever seen the movie I Am Sam

starring Sean Penn? If not, hell to you. Only kidding. But seriously, go watch the movie! For those that have—kudos. In any case, though, that movie, besides being a tear-jerker, raises some serious ethical considerations.

The movie’s plot goes something like this: the main character is named Sam Dawson; he works at Starbucks and is obsessed with the Beatles; he falls in love with a homeless woman and has a daughter. In the hospital, they vow to work together and to give it their all. But, when she recovers from the pregnancy, just as they’re about to start a life together, she steps on a Greyhound and leaves him forever. He is heart-broken and speechless as she departs; and, after glancing down at his newborn, Lucy Diamond Dawson, still wrapped in hospital linens, he is overtaken with fear at the rocky and uncertain path ahead. With no money and no home, with his hopes dim and his lover gone, and with the mental capacity and emotional maturity of a seven-year-old boy, Sam is face to face with a seemingly unsurmountable struggle.

For the first seven years, he has relatively—relative considering the circumstances—few problems. But when Lucy turns seven, at which point she would surpass his intelligence, his circumstances are discovered. A social worker deems Sam unfit for custody, and Lucy is pulled from his care and adopted by a new family. The movie follows his struggle to get her back.

I found myself jumping back and forth. At one point I was for Sam raising her—I mean, he did do it for seven years; isn’t that proof enough that he’s capable? But then, when I thought about Lucy’s teenage years, that uncomfortable time when things get REAL awkward, I was doubt-ing whether Sam could provide the emotional support for a developing girl. Anyhow, luckily, because it proved great for acquiring informa-tion, I am not the first person to be ba!ed with this ethical question. And thus we begin:

Do you think a mentally-disabled person should be allowed to raise, or even to have children?

I’d like to hear your thoughts, send ‘em to my e-mail: don.b.mcbride@gmail.com. Next week I’m hoping to form an analysis of both argu-ments stemming from your ideas. If you don’t want to be quoted, say so in your message. See ya next week!

I Am Sam! Don B. McBride, A’15

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The death of my favorite tu-tor fills me with nostalgia—

not only for a soft-spoken, gen-tle man but for the passing of an era. For me, David Stephenson was emblematic of a time when St. John’s had the feel of a fin-ishing school for the Empire of Prep, the natural sequel to Gro-ton, Philips Exeter, and Ando-ver. Not that the school was ever a snobby, haute-WASP redoubt; but the bow ties, the croquet, the boat house gave o! an über-Abercrombie & Fitch feel.

Some tutors liked to make a show of grasping the Big Idea. They’d cup their hands and reach into the air, as if search-ing...searching for the hidden meaning embedded in the text. David never had to make a show of his insights, whether it was Kant’s nearly impenetrable Critique of Pure Judgement (one hell of a preceptorial for a junior);" Faraday’s studies of electromagnetism; or" the sub-ject closest to his heart, opera. He often had a vague, quizzi-cal, dreamy look about him, as though he were looking with admiration at something only he could see. All I know is that his intelligence on every book and subject in the Program pro-vided some of my most reward-ing classes, and I was fortunate enough to have studied with him in several.

After my freshman year, I rented his gloriously ramshack-le house in the center of town with some other students,"back when all the doctors and law-yers lived on the outskirts of town, and tutors could still af-ford to buy a townhouse in His-toric Annapolis." Anyone who remembers David will remem-ber those nightly walks around

town with a particular dog, Billy. My housemates, all “stars” (at least in their own minds), neglected Billy or were down-right mean. I’ll never forget when one of them even kicked him. Maybe I bonded with that rescued dog because I felt sorry for him; but maybe it’s because I felt a little bit like a mutt my-self—a yokel" who still spoke with a thick hillbilly accent and had graduated" from an impov-erished school district where the principal’s own education was limited to a Christian Bible college.

In my last two years at St. John’s, we used to take long, ambling walks, David, Billy and myself. The conversation am-bled, too, peripatetic in the best sense of the word. After gradua-tion, when I moved to New York, I saw David frequently during his sabbatical, when he gener-ously supported his wife’s long-delayed ambition of pursuing an opera career. The couple had rented an apartment in the West 70s, not far from me. We’d meet at the old O’Neal’s Balloon and spend afternoons talking about Verdi and baseball and life—all the big stu!. Eventually his pil-grimages to the Met became less frequent, and, as inevitably hap-pens, we lost touch."But I’ll nev-er forget the lesson that David—and St. John’s—gave me: Even a mutt, with proper training, can stand proudly next to the best-bred show dog.

I once interviewed a pro-spective student." Afterward, my mom asked me, “Well, does she fit in?” I asked her what she meant. She told me, “There’s a kind of misfit who seems to fit in only at St. John’s.” I think that goes for the faculty, too. !

As we return from break and settle back into our daily routines, I’d like you to ask yourself: Where

am I? It shouldn’t be a di#cult question to answer; you’re at St. John’s. You participate in seminars, you spark discussions inside and outside of class on topics that interest you, and many of you participate in activi-ties outside of the curriculum. In short, you’re a mem-ber of the St. John’s community.

As members of a community, we stake a certain pride in St. John’s, or else we wouldn’t be here. When we first arrive, it’s the Program in which we take the most pride. As time goes on, that pride starts to ex-pand to include friends and the close relationships this community fosters. We take pride in Freshman Cho-rus and our intramural teams. We take pride in the fact that anybody can talk to just about anybody else about the Program. And right near the top of the list, we take pride in beating Navy every year in croquet.

And yet, despite this pride that I know we have, we’re going to lose croquet for the next three years un-less you step the hell up. The croquet team currently has six seniors, and will likely have more come April. Currently, one junior and one sophomore practice reg-ularly. That leaves us with not much for the next few years.

Listen up, because this is a major problem. Right now, we have a bunch of seniors who are more than happy to teach how to play the game. But next year that resource will have disappeared. And not only are they taking their skills and knowledge of the game, but they’re taking their knowledge of the little things as well: budget management, contact info, connections with the sta!. Unless these things are passed on, re-viving the team is going to be extremely di#cult. And that’s not even mentioning that many of you will have to learn the game on your own, which is going to be much, much harder than learning it from someone with experience.

I don’t know if you don’t come out because you think others will, if you’re intimidated, or if you just aren’t interested. But now’s the time to change that. For the past two years, the croquet team has been doing ev-erything short of knocking on doors to get people to come out and learn. The door is wide open, and now’s the time to take advantage of it. Get a group of your friends and come and learn a great, entertaining, and fun game before that opportunity is lost and the task before this community becomes much, much more dif-ficult. Listen: take advantage of it now, before it’s too late. Because I know for damn sure that I don’t want to find out croquet is cancelled next year because the community didn’t give enough of a collected shit to do anything about it when it had the chance. !

Steve Weinstein A’75

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Samuel Weinberg A’14

As some of you may recall, one of the first SCI. forums of this year was a

discussion of Stringfellow Barr’s “Notes on Dialogue.” At the time, we viewed this essay both as an apt introduction to some of St. John’s’ pedagogical principles to the green freshmen, and as something to allow for some much-needed reflection for the upperclassmen. In that discussion I was excited by both the turnout and enthusiasm that people brought about their experiences at the College; both those acquired over years and the bloom-ing experiences of the freshmen. I came away with the impression that there was a pervasive enthusiasm for discussing our peculiar activity by way of a docu-ment written by one of the founders of the College. It was then that I realized that something like this, but more per-manent, should be established.

As luck would have it, it was high-time for a change in one of the SCI seasonal seminars. “Women in Winter” got the axe: this was not a misogynistic decision (both co-chairs are women), but we thought that a change was for the best. Thus, my nascent idea was brought to life, and the newest SCI series was born, which, for lack of a more clever title, will be called “Liberal Education in Winter.” The series will feature Scott Buchanan’s “The Last Don-Rag,” the 1937 Statement of the Pro-gram along with a 1953 self-study, Jacob Klein’s “The Idea of Liberal Education,” Leo Strauss’ “What is Liberal Educa-tion?,” George Doskow’s “Women and the Great Books,” and Grant Franks’ “Ev-erything Aristotle Has Said Was Wrong.”

The first three readings of this series are foundational; all are by authors who had a central hand in the principles of the College at the inception of the New Program or shortly thereafter. The latter three readings are more controversial in nature. Immediately, I’m sure many will

be taken aback at the inclusion of the po-larizing Leo Strauss. It would be virtually impossible for one to go through any time at St. John’s without hearing Strauss’ name, often said pejoratively. What would not be impossible would be to hear his name, immediately register the con-descension, and move on, without inves-tigating what this man actually thought. Consequently, it seems necessary to read this document, as it provides a slightly di(erent conception of liberal education, one which has influenced both faculty and students, past and present. (N.B. Leo Strauss was the first, and only, “Scott Bu-chanan Scholar in Residence” at the Col-lege in the 1970s.)

The final two readings will more immediately ques-tion our curricu-lum. Santa Fe tutor Grant Franks asks, why is our program divorced from his-tory? Former dean George Doskow asks, why does our program lack so many women au-

thors? What are we missing as a conse-quence?

There will be hopefully be a thread to these conversations as they build upon another. It is worth noting that none of these documents are intrinsically “great” like most of the things we are asked to read, and they have no pretense of being so. But the aim of this series is to have a clearer understanding of our program and its history, and to expose the Polity to the rich history of the College by way of these documents.

St. John’s is great, but it is far from per-fect. By investigating these documents and questioning the way we do things, we can hopefully achieve a better sense of our purpose as a Polity and foster a better appreciation for how the Program came to be in its current state.

I hope to see many in attendance, as this promises to be an extremely exciting experiment. !

“ By investigating these docu-ments and questioning the way we do things, we can hopefully achieve a better sense of our purpose as a Polity and foster a better appreciation for how the Program came to be in its current state.

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