This is more than just a story about studying an ancient language; it’s a deep dive into the lessons I unearthed about myself while wrestling with Greek. If you’ve ever been held back by self-doubt, especially when it comes to learning, this story is for you. It’s about how confronting the challenge of learning Greek became a pivotal experience that reshaped my entire approach to education and self-belief.
Growing up, I often criticized myself for not excelling in certain subjects. I convinced myself that I simply wasn’t trying hard enough or that I lacked a natural aptitude for those areas. Languages, in particular, seemed to be my nemesis.
My struggles with French in middle and high school reinforced this belief. While some classmates effortlessly achieved top grades, I consistently hovered around Cs, even dipping to a D once. I concluded that I was simply “not a language person” and that memorization was beyond my capabilities. This self-perception became a barrier, limiting my confidence in tackling new subjects.
However, college presented a new challenge: two years of mandatory Ancient Greek. Determined to rewrite my past language learning failures, I resolved to master Greek. It seemed like a solid plan, fueled by a desire to overcome my perceived limitations, but the reality was far more challenging than I anticipated.
Freshman year saw me throwing myself into Greek studies with intense effort. Yet, progress felt like hitting a brick wall. No matter how diligently I studied, effective translation remained elusive. This was incredibly disheartening, especially because I was deeply drawn to the English translations of Ancient Greek literature and philosophy. The disconnect between my admiration for these works and my inability to access them in their original language was profoundly frustrating. The textbook, developed by professors at my own college, was supposedly tailored to our curriculum. In hindsight, I realize it was far from effective.
But as a determined freshman, I was unaware of these pedagogical shortcomings. I was solely focused on succeeding. I recall dedicating my entire break between semesters to studying, day in and day out. Returning for the second semester, however, brought no improvement in my translation skills. The frustration mounted, and I began to question my initial resolve.
I vividly remember the collaborative, yet ultimately unproductive, translation sessions that semester. We would gather in groups, attempting “group” translations, which felt more like a form of academic workaround than genuine learning. Sentences were fragmented, with each student assigned a word to look up in the lexicon. This process was laborious, time-draining, and ultimately unrewarding, as we rarely retained the vocabulary we looked up. It was a testament to our desperation rather than an effective learning strategy.
Despite these struggles, my fascination with ancient Greek poetry and philosophy deepened as the semester progressed. I began to appreciate how translations could sometimes obscure the original author’s intended meaning. This realization ignited a strong desire to engage with the original texts directly. Homer, in particular, captivated me. I wrote essays analyzing his works and yearned to validate my interpretations by reading Homer in Greek. However, this aspiration felt distant. My translation skills were so weak that even a few lines of Homer could consume hours, yielding results that were often inaccurate and unsatisfying. The dream of fluent Greek reading seemed unattainable.
Then, towards the end of my freshman year, a chance encounter shifted my trajectory. A brochure, tacked to a wall near a water fountain, caught my eye. It advertised:
The Latin/Greek Institute of The City University of New York, founded in 1973, is a collaborative effort of the City University Graduate Center and Brooklyn College. The Institute offers intensive, total-immersion programs in ancient languages during the summer that enable serious, highly motivated high school, undergraduate, and graduate students to cover the material normally included in several semesters of conventional work in a single summer. All programs are team-taught by experienced instructors. In addition to being intensive, the programs are unique in that they provide 24-hour availability of faculty to assist students by phone in the preparation of assignments, hourly rotation of staff to provide for exposure to a variety of approaches, and a low student-faculty ratio.
The basic programs of the Latin/Greek Institute enable students with no previous training in either language to cover the material normally included in four to six semesters of college-level Latin or Greek in ten weeks of instruction and, upon completing the program, to enroll in senior undergraduate reading courses.
The work of the Institute is extremely demanding, with the equivalent of one week’s material in a normal college setting covered each day. Classes begin at 9:30 a.m. and continue until 4 p.m., Monday through Friday, with only a short break for lunch. Quizzes are given daily. There are substantial nightly assignments, and there are weekly examinations. The programs provide daily drills and a review for students who want extra help. Each student has a faculty advisor to work with on any difficulties the student is having. No one should enroll who has any other commitment for the summer, e.g. term papers, job, family problems, etc.
Many students of previous Institutes have found the work the most demanding of their academic careers but also the most rewarding.
Twelve undergraduate credits can be earned in either language through Brooklyn College.
As I finished reading, a sense of certainty washed over me. This was the answer. Walking away, the phrases that echoed in my mind were: “most demanding of their academic careers,” “24-hour availability of faculty,” and “no one should enroll who has any other commitment for the summer.” I was completely convinced. The intensity, the support, and the singular focus promised by the Institute resonated deeply with my desire to finally conquer Greek For Learning.
The Institute commenced in early June. On the first day, all Latin and Greek program students gathered in an auditorium. The instructors, positioned on stage, gave a frank overview of the program and the challenges ahead. They were brutally honest: half of us, they predicted, would not complete the program. During the Q&A, one woman inquired about getting assignments “ahead of time” to stay ahead. She was politely but firmly informed that “getting ahead” was impossible. The message was clear: simply keeping pace would be a monumental task.
Classes began in earnest on day two. Dr. Floyd J. Moreland, the Institute’s founder, a dynamic, stout man with a beard and the energy of a conductor, strode into our classroom and plunged directly into the intricacies of the ancient Greek verb system. Within minutes, he was reciting all six principal parts of the verb Luo, meaning “to loosen” or “unbind”:
“Luo, Lusso, Elusa, Leluka, Lelumai, Eluthain.”
He instructed us to repeat it with him. We stumbled through the unfamiliar sounds. I sat there, a mix of amazement, awe, and shock. Two semesters of college Greek, and any perceived advantage I thought I possessed vanished instantly. Here, on just the second day, we weren’t just learning basic verb tenses; we were expected to grasp every tense, every possible conjugation of the Greek verb “to loosen” – “I was loosening,” “we loosened,” “she had loosened,” “they were loosening,” “he will loosen,” “you might loosen,” and so on. The sheer scope of the task was daunting.
The first week saw a significant dropout rate. Feeling overwhelmed, I sought advice from one of my instructors. He recommended creating index cards for vocabulary and verb conjugations and carrying them everywhere. I initially resisted, explaining that index cards had failed me in French. He simply reiterated: “Make the index cards.”
So, I made the cards. And I carried them religiously. Our days became a relentless cycle of sixteen-plus hours filled with lectures, translations, oral Greek recitation, reading, listening, and writing. Quizzes were daily, ensuring constant pressure to keep up. A few weeks into the program, the instructors started calling us “hoplights,” the Greek term for front-line soldiers. The name captured the intense, demanding nature of our linguistic battle.
As weeks turned into a month, more students withdrew. I was perpetually struggling to stay afloat. My social life evaporated. One morning, en route to the city, I bumped into a girl I hadn’t seen in years. We boarded the train together for the thirty-minute commute. As we settled in, we began catching up, discussing mutual friends. After about five minutes, however, I had to interrupt, explaining that I had a Greek test to study for, a ritual of every morning. My life had become entirely consumed by Greek for learning.
After classes ended at 4:00 PM, many of us would migrate to a nearby café, continuing our translation work into the evening. Afterward, the train ride home was followed by a quick dinner and then back to homework, usually another two to three hours of studying the latest lesson, creating new index cards, and completing exercises.
My mornings were a regimented routine: shower, shave, dress, walk (or run) to the bus, study vocabulary and verbs while waiting, continue on the bus, then at the train station, on the train, walking to school, riding the elevator, and finally, arriving in class, index cards always in hand, mind already immersed in Greek.
I vividly recall the Fourth of July. Despite being invited to sail on my parents’ sailboat to watch the fireworks, I had a major Greek exam looming. So, my index cards became my companions on the boat. They were my constant shadow, accompanying me everywhere, a tangible symbol of my total immersion in Greek learning.
Gradually, almost imperceptibly, memorizing verbs became easier. Initially, the task of memorizing the six principal parts of Luo had seemed impossible. But as I continued to learn more verbs, and as they settled into my long-term memory, patterns began to emerge. These patterns, particularly in verb endings, were surprisingly easy to identify, amplified by our constant oral recitation of verbs in class.
For instance, I noticed that the endings of the six principal parts of the verb “to learn” mirrored those of “to loosen.” Many such parallels existed, simplifying the process of learning new verbs. In retrospect, I realized that the traditional, slower approach to language learning, where tenses are taught in isolation over weeks, would never have revealed these crucial patterns. The intensity of the immersion program was not just about speed; it was about revealing the interconnectedness of the language in a way that traditional methods obscured.
Beyond the immersive methodology, the textbook itself, “An Intensive Course In Ancient Greek,” crafted by the Institute’s instructors, was a revelation. It was a brilliant pedagogical tool. Each lesson was meticulously designed to introduce new grammar, vocabulary, and verbs while simultaneously providing continuous and thorough review of previously learned material. The stark contrast between this textbook and the ineffective manual I had used in college highlighted the profound impact of quality learning resources. It was astonishing to realize the immense difference a well-designed textbook could make. To this day, I prioritize seeking out the clearest and most intelligently structured resources when learning anything new.
Finally, the Institute’s unique educational process was a hidden gem. The instructors, each with distinct personalities and teaching styles, rotated throughout the day, leading translation sessions, lectures, and quizzes. This constant exposure to diverse approaches enriched the learning experience immeasurably.
It was a surprising realization that, as time passed, my memory was actually improving. I began to recall sentences and vocabulary without even needing to consult my book! This led me to a profound understanding: my memory was not inherently poor; it was simply underutilized. The intensive Greek program was forcing me to engage my memory in ways I never had before.
Prior to college, my frustration with memorization had led me to dismiss its importance. I intellectually understood that true learning went beyond rote memorization, using this as a justification for my struggles. But this was, in truth, a self-imposed limitation. I now recognize that not only am I capable of effective memorization, but that memorization plays a vital role in education, especially in language acquisition and building a foundational knowledge base.
The Greek Institute fundamentally transformed my self-perception. It was astonishing to discover my capacity to achieve what I had previously believed impossible. The instructors’ unwavering belief in my ability to succeed, provided I followed their methods, was a stark contrast to my high school French experience, where such support was absent. This supportive and demanding environment was the catalyst for my breakthrough.
After ten of the most academically challenging weeks of my life, upon completing the course, we celebrated with exuberance. One celebratory gathering stretched well into the morning. The Institute generously hosted a graduation ceremony for the Latin and Greek program graduates at Windows On The World, a prestigious venue atop the World Trade Center. This symbolic location underscored the sense of accomplishment and elevation we all felt.
Returning to college for my sophomore year, my confidence in Greek was, to say the least, significantly enhanced. I often found myself correcting my Greek professor in class, a stark contrast to my freshman year struggles. This newfound proficiency was gratifying, but I was also acutely aware of the year of unnecessary struggle I had endured with ineffective methods.
Driven by this experience, I took action on two fronts. I began tutoring freshmen who were struggling with Greek, and I approached the Dean to advocate for replacing the outdated Greek manual with the superior textbook from the Institute. I recounted my freshman year struggles and emphasized how the intensive program had propelled me far beyond my sophomore peers and even some professors, solely due to a more intelligent and effective learning process. I passionately argued for the removal or significant revision of the school’s manual, authored years ago by some faculty members.
The Dean listened attentively. I persistently conveyed the magnitude of my transformation, detailing how it occurred and why the current manual was a barrier to effective Greek for learning. I practically demanded change. To my delight and surprise, action was taken. It took another year, but by my senior year, freshmen were learning Greek from a completely new manual!
The new manual was crafted by a professor renowned for his linguistic expertise and deep knowledge of Greek scholarship. It was a comprehensive rewrite, mirroring the effective approach of “An Intensive Course In Ancient Greek.” Seeing the new manual, I was overjoyed, knowing that the school had listened and implemented a real solution.
This event marks a turning point in my life. I finally grasped my true learning potential and began to reject self-limiting beliefs about my abilities. Instead of assuming “I can’t do something” or “I’m not good at something,” I started questioning my effort and, if persistent effort yielded minimal results, I would critically evaluate the teacher, the textbook, or the learning process itself.
For years, I recounted my Greek experience to friends. As I found myself repeating this story, I decided to write it down. My hope is that this narrative empowers others to overcome their own self-imposed limitations, many of which originate in early education. No subpar textbook or ineffective teacher should ever cause a student to doubt their inherent learning capabilities. There is almost always a better way to learn; the key is to find it and embrace the journey of discovery.
