Ancestral

My ancestors were all rebellious by nature, on both sides of my family, unto the third and fourth generation. They left their homes, were expelled, revolted, went on strike, cut themselves loose from family or church, went on unexplained journeys, took up unnecessary labours, were renowned for peculiar and often disturbing behaviour.

And yet, time has sanctified some memories and overlaid others with the sweet dust and patina of time. The unruliness was interred with bone and ash; the good deeds grew like wildflowers. This is by the grace of God. Faith, hope, and love: these three abide, but the greatest of these is love.

Shieldbearer

Some nights, I feel the fire in my veins. I sit here, and I think of all the kind, gentle, fiery ancestors I've had. My grandfather was saintly. Never raised his voice to me, but once. But when he felt something was wrong, he would stand firm in the breach and it was as if a flaming sword was in his hands.

A flaming, two-edged sword. Some of you will know what I mean by that. He lived in a room full of them. I remember him filing, polishing, underlining; he never felt that his mastery was sufficient.

Once in a while he would tell me things, in his mild, resonant voice. He sounded like a giant hidden in the flesh of a man. He was sixty years older than I was, but that voice was strong.

He told me about the shield. He said that once upon a time, it was about being a knight. And a knight is a servant of a king, sworn to uphold the values and laws of that king. Those values, he said, were hidden in plain sight upon that shield.

There's a lot of blue. That is for things of the spirit, of the unseen, of what is above.

There's a lot of gold. That is for things of the world, for one should not be of no earthly use.

There is some red, and that is blood, shed to reconcile what is above to what is below. For Christians, that is the blood of Christ, and it is the mark of healing and joining.

There is a beast with three parts. It is historical, mythical, and not some sort of evil monster.

He told me that as symbolised by the lion's head, you should seek courage to do what is right, to act justly, to protect the innocent, and resist falsehood.

He told me that as symbolised by the eagle's wings, you should seek excellence to do your best, to act rightly, to aim for perfection, and resist mediocrity.

He told me that as symbolised by the dragon's body, you should seek wisdom to do what is merciful, to act generously, to defend the weak, and resist ignorance.

He said that if a school wanted to make good Christian men, then the vision should be simple — for all to be good, to be Christian, to be men. No doubt many would quibble about whether a school should have such ideas, but that was the vision of the Dauntless Hero. Whether the boys wanted to be such, that was a matter for their conscience, not for coercion.

He said, it's a pity that you don't learn what that shield means, although you wear it everyday on your shirt. You're a shieldbearer. You're a knight. Don't forget it, because you will carry it all your life.

And now I know what he meant, and he is gone more than sixteen years now, and I never got to tell him that I once shared his lessons with the entire school that he taught me was my home and my mission. The anniversary of his passing was Sunday, 10 October 2010. 10-10-10. He would have laughed at that, in his hidden-giant deep tenor voice.

Buried Memory

It's been almost fifteen years since my grandfather passed beyond the veil. I am reminded of this because I was digging. In my spare time, I have become an amateur archaeologist, sifting through the strata of the dig that is my parental digs.

In a stratum near the bottom of the area south of the big desk, I found a single sheet, preserved by some chemical accident. It was from my best friend from the old days. On that sheet, preserving a single email from a long-lost server, was his tribute to my grandfather. In it, he mentioned the first time he met my grandfather, and how the man had summed him up quickly and accurately but kindly.

But the funny thing was the connection between my best friend and my grandfather; it was summed up in terms of the school that all three of us called our alma mater. He said that it was that honour which linked us together, the older man and the boys. And he never forgot that.

Three Months

This is going to be a critical quarter. By 'critical', I'm using the Greek sense of the word; it is a time that will require a lot of good judgement.

For a start, if I can't get my dissertation done within the period July-September, I might as well not bother anymore, because it will have become obvious that the knot I have tied myself in is far too difficult to unravel. The dissertation topic is like an overlay which covers several minefields. You read Tony Wagner and other North American pundits and they say how good the education system is that you're writing about. But what if it is good but not that good?

My parents are away too. For three months, it will be about house management, bills, gardening, doing the mail, watching out for serious documents from places like the USP and the various agencies that somehow have a lien on the pater's time. And interacting with my very interesting brother, who can be quirky, is always intelligent, and likes things done in certain ways.

Meanwhile, my students approach their penultimate or ultimate deadlines and examinations. And I need to help some of them a lot, because habits of mind are not so easily inculcated when for years they've been let off lightly by a system that a) doesn't push them very hard, or b) pushes them hard but provides them with unnatural assistance in getting there.

The obvious case is the TOK essays I've been marking. I used to write these things when I was primary school simply because the #1 method of dealing with the brat I used to be was to give him work to do, no assistance except answering questions with more questions (or a gesture towards the family library), and set him a deadline — something like two pages in one morning, four pages by the end of the day.

There was a marked lack of coddling when it came to intellectual problems: I remember teaching myself algebra and calculus from my maternal grandfather's library, biology and bridge from my paternal grandfather's. You learn it, you earn it.

That attitude rubbed off on me as a teacher; I'm sure a lot of my students will remember that my favourite response to a question raised in class was, "What do you think?" (I must say that Big Ben was the best exponent of all time at answering this question. He actually could think on the fly and would come up with answers on the spot. I appreciated that.)

I believe that three months of intensive teaching in questioning techniques — how to come up with good questions, how to redirect questions, how to change the focus of a question and ask it another way, stuff like that — would certainly make a cohort capable of answering epistemological questions on their own. The problem is that nobody wants to do it.

So. Three months. We should all stoke the furnaces and go for broke.

Whois 000

I don't know who the numerate respondent was, who first identified our very own dear lunate as the subject of Whois 010, but it was a good guess. The more reasoned approaches were pretty clever too. Orff's infamous (or at least, well-known) beginning and ending song in the Carmina Burana cycle is of course O Fortuna. The first lines of that song can be translated, "O Fortune, like the moon – always in a state of change, increasing and decreasing..."

Some of the description is, of course, based on empirical observation of the subject. But the association with the usual flavour of Colgate toothpaste was deliberate (I've seen 'cool mint', 'spearmint' and 'peppermint' – note that they are all different). The last part was pretty (un)obvious, but you should think about the phrase 'LAN game', reverse the elements, and look at this for the smoking gun. Heh.

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I am going to hold off on the Whois challenges for now. I have literally got 100s of them churning away, but I have to suppress such ideas because I have been writing testimonials, and if those are written in cryptic allusions, I don't think anyone will thank me. However, I have to say something in follow-up to a recent comment by the subject of Whois 007.

You are right about the scarifying ability of the network formed by alumni of the College of Wyverns. The friends you make may turn out to be related in the oddest ways to other people who might be significant. And the relatives too. Here is just one of many examples. Please note that is not a Whois challenge (although you might want to treat it that way).

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Person 'A' has two siblings.

His male sibling ended up marrying someone whose rather immediate relative was the brother of the aged Merlion himself. 'A' thus ended up marrying into the bedrock of the Island. His female sibling ended up marrying someone whose equivalent relative was Champion of the Realm. This Champion (now retired) was classmate to my maternal ancestor and cousin to my paternal ancestor. The Champion's former boss was the Very Intelligent Man, whose unfortunate biography of late has revealed all these connections. Person 'A' got married too. His wife teaches at the College of Wyverns. Ho ho. Everyone mentioned here is connected somehow.

However, 'A' has relatives from the Gryphon Seat, and this happens to many of us, families divided by allegiance to different mythical monsters. The Merlion and his brothers are that way. So too, my ancestors and relatives (though, thankfully not, my parents). Thus does the network spread and the myriad fruiting bodies deposit their miniature spores all over the world. It is very sporean.

In Memoriam

Today is a rather special anniversary. My great ancestor died thirteen years ago this day. We do not forget him. He always had room in his heart for causes, of which one was the College of Wyverns. He made it a point to donate a classroom or something equivalent to every one of the College's campuses.

A funny thought came to me. He would have been vastly entertained by the god-daughter, and she by him. I can just imagine the two of them. They sound very much alike in some ways. Both of them also share this ability to remind me that I have a conscience. Unfortunately, that kind of meeting can only take place in my mind now.

And you know something else? He would have been a hundred years old this month.

Dead Language?

I was introduced to the rigours of Latin by a fierce and exacting taskmistress. My grandfather's younger sister had the sharpest mind of anyone I've ever met, a tongue to go with it, and the will to restrain both – a potent combination. She once said she was the only one who could stand up to him, and I believe it. They were very affectionate siblings the rest of the time.

But what amazed me was the abundance of life in the so-called 'dead' languages. From both her and my grandfather, I picked up a love of the arcane, in the form of Latin, Greek and unusual Biblical translations; she taught me what brutal honesty was about and he taught me what loving generosity was. And yet both of them were capable of blistering wrath, rare and doubly potent when unleashed. I loved them both – grandfather close up and my grandaunt from afar.

And I will always remember them as I remember this:

Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus,
Dominus Deus Sabaoth;
Pleni sunt caeli et terra gloria Tua.
Hosanna in excelsis!

Holy, holy, holy,
Lord God of Hosts;
The heavens and earth are filled with Your glory,
Hosanna in the highest!

Amen.

Ancestor

I remember my great ancestor in his prime:
He was venerable, patriarchal.
Aunt said he was Caleb of the mountains,
But he was Benjamin at the right hand.
The sunlight sank around him patiently;
He sought humility each day, and she was kind.

Always the mediator he, a traveller
Upon the middle way – not left or right,
A narrow path, his Master's way alone.
We were small but he was fun to talk to;
There was always awe, but that was friendly –
We children thought that God might be a larger him.

From the stand he growled, the prophet preacher teaching;
His fingers on the keys unlocked music;
He asked his wife if he might have ice-cream;
How can we remember everything now?
It is hard to feel him gone around us,
It is hard to feel so mortal in October.

There is a summer forgotten, drowned by autumn;
That year, we learnt the world he made for us
Was just another permitted blessing.
We are older now, we too see our end
In sight. What is this blurring of vision?
Eternity, and a brief story of his time.