Throwback: Heroic Idiocy

            On June 22, 2015 I stepped out of a summer filled with bible verse memorization, 1 AM curfews, and summer blockbusters and into one filled with Cervantes quotes, 1:30 start times, and films that would probably make Robert Egbert’s top 100 movies. In other words, it was my first real day of college classes, and I let my senses soak up the campus ethos. Rows of eclectic food trucks were crammed together like sardines, and each one was hoping to outdo the other. Luckily, pedestrians benefited from this culinary warfare as the air filled with aromas of buttery croissants, spicy halal, Italian beef sandwiches and other greasy Chi-town comfort food. The pounding of jackhammers and the battle cries of imposing bulldozers filled the air with a mechanical soundtrack, albeit with an irregular cadence. The stone gargoyles glanced auspiciously at me as they perched on extended edifices. Although for many of the passerbyers, this was just another day at the University of Chicago, I found myself cognizant of all of these minute details, evidence of the smorgasbord of excitement and apprehension I was feeling.

            As I walked past the safety of the Quadrangle, and stepped inside Room 108 of the Social Science building, the ambiance immediately changed. My #2 lead pencil, Starbucks coffee, and cold sweat replaced the delectable aromas of the outside. A man carrying a black satchel and MacBook Pro suddenly entered in the room and in a professional, yet cordial tone, exclaimed “Welcome to ‘The Idiot as Hero!’”

            “The Idiot as Hero” (or ENG 24102) with Professor Lawrence Rothfield, as I would soon discover, became an intellectual odyssey. Far more than the typical English class, it was interdisciplinary in content and scope. I watched films, interpreted poems, analyzed art pieces, and read copiously both short stories and full-length novels. I grappled with literature, media, cinema, theater, and semiotic theory all within the confines of three time-stopping hours every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday of June through July last summer. Each week, in a Socratic seminar setting, I analyzed the conventional idiots of film and literature with six undergraduates and Professor Rothfield as we studied works like Forest Gump, Don Quixote, The Life of Lazarillo de Tormes, and The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime. The class, for which I received an “A,” was a fantastic experience, but I gained much more than a grade. I grew in my critical thinking and writing skills. I grew as a person.

            What I love about literature, film, and other forms of artistic expression is how their narrative worlds become a mirror to my own real-world experiences. Their characters often reflect the angst, fears, joys, laments, and dreams of my generation. When I questioned, for example, whether or not Forest Gump, Don Quixote, or Lazarillo were truly idiotic, I came to the conclusion that they were not. These characters were only “idiots” if read and viewed through the social, moral, and cultural codes of the audience. Forrest Gump was no longer a shrimp-loving runner who had blind faith in people, but became for me a paragon of true friendship and loyalty in the midst of adversity. Lazarillo de Tormes was not just a conniving Falstaff-esque individual who lived for base desires but a frustrated soul who sought true bliss in the humble pleasures of life. Yet one character that I always had the hardest time analyzing was myself.

            As I looked upon the summer narrative of my campus experience, I saw how afraid I was to acknowledge my own “idiocy.” I felt the pressure of being surrounded by undergrads who were much older than me, and I wanted to perform on their rhetorical level and display the same amount of intelligence. Yet I realized that they, too, were still learning. They were my sojourners in the quest of knowledge and personal growth, not my competitors.

            Ray Bradbury in his novel Fahrenheit 451 states: “If you hide your ignorance, no one will hit you and you’ll never learn.” It took time to feel comfortable interrupting the professor mid-sentence so I could ask a clarifying question, or energetically share my thoughts when I received an epiphany about the author or character. But to hide myself was to play the idiot’s game. I realized that an essential part of growing intellectually was to accept where I was not the expert but ask for help and take risks to learn. So, though initially intimidated, I took ownership of the course, refused to let my nervousness control me, and engaged in intense dialogue and debate with my professor and peers. I worked hard to create an academic space for vulnerability in the classroom without fear of censorship or ridicule.

            I have many aspirations. I imagine myself in the future to be a professor or teacher of English literature, an accomplished author, and leader in public policy for urban education. But all grand dreams require a spirit and community of collaboration, and I am so thankful that College Bridge provided this for me.