I remember the moment I decided to learn Latin. I was maybe six or seven, sitting at a family dinner at my uncle's house, when my cousin, Taras, started talking about Latin. He was a high schooler at University High School, and he was part of some sort of Latin Club. My uncle and father joined in, cracking jokes I didn't understand and telling stories about this strange language I had only read of in books. When I asked my father to teach me Latin, he said it was a waste of time to learn.
I counted down the years left until high school on my fingers. As a homeschooler in fifth grade, I begged and begged my parents to let me learn Latin. My mom was enamoured with the concept of a classical education, and the study of the histories and writings of Ancient Greece, Rome, Egypt and Persia were paramount. In the comfort of our room, my sisters and I would read about Hammurabi, Artemisia and Pericles, and the books seemed to whisk us off to those faraway lands. Living in a master-planned community, I ached to travel to those distant places. I wanted more than anything to go somewhere where there was history I could just feel in the air surrounding me. More than anything, I wanted a friend to talk about these things with.
Years of dreaming of attending high school finally led me to Freshman Registration Day. I remember hugging my very first Latin textbook to my heart and grinning as my mom took a picture in the parking lot. Holding that red Cambridge Latin Course book filled me with a happiness that glowed in my chest.
In the three days between registration day and the first day of school, I poured over my Latin textbook, completing all of the homework and exercises for the first three chapters. I could barely sleep that final night.
Fostering
Brotherhood
Our teacher had a measured and calm demeanor when he addressed the class. “Salve. Mihi nomen est Magister Michalak.” He pointed at me. “Quid est nomen tibi?” I felt the class’s eyes on me. I tried to remember what he had said. “Uh…. mihi nomen est Sofia?” Mr. Michalak smiled. “Bene!” He pointed to another student. “Quid est nomen tibi?”
After class, my head felt a little light. I walked to Mr. Michalak’s desk, and asked him for book suggestions. I left the class trying to hide the grin tugging at the corners of my lips.
There was a flier on the door. It said something along the lines of “Do you like mythology and history? Are you competitive? Try out for this quiz bowl thing, Certamen.” I shrugged, and took a picture of it with my phone.
One week later, I walked into Room 202 to see what this Certamen thing was all about. There were all of these smart seniors and juniors and sophomores who obviously loved Latin and each other. One of the kids, Peter, kept making bad jokes about history. Michelle, who seemed like she was in charge, rolled her eyes but laughed anyways. At the end of the interest meeting, Michelle told the students who were interested to write their names on the board. I don’t think I’ve ever jumped out of my seat as fast as I did then.
Certamen, I found, was a little family in itself. Haley was our grammarian, and her dry humor made me choke while drinking water more than a few times. Christina was short and brilliant; whenever she talked about ancient history, her eyes lit up with excitement.
Ancient History: Sofia and her old friend, Lan Jiang, hang out at their freshman JCL banquet
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