Hannakwanzaachrismakuh

Hannakwanzaachrismakuh

At this time of year, it can be challenging to toe the politically correct line as we participate in card exchanges, office gift-giving, and workplace parties. It used to be that all a confused well-wisher had to worry about was Christmas and Chanukah. However, in the twenty-first century, just two holidays will not suffice. With increased globalization and cultural awareness, people now know about other winter celebrations like solstice, Bodhi day, Eid (sometimes), Yalda, and so on.

Rather new to the family of holiday celebrations is Kwanzaa, which was first celebrated in 1966. The holiday is intended to be a symbol that unites Africans and African-Americans with diverse ancestral roots. It is celebrated for seven days, and it begins this year on Saturday, December 26. The holiday was created by Maulana Karenga, now a professor at California State University in Long Beach, during the black arts movement.

On each day during Kwanzaa, a different principle is remembered and observed. The seven principles are derived from a Swahili term for tradition and reason: Kawaida. The seven principles are unity, self-determination, collective work and responsibility, cooperative economics, purpose, creativity, and faith. Various objects are used in the celebration of Kwanzaa. They are the kinara (candle holder), seven candles, corn and crops (since Kwanzaa is a harvest holiday, symbolizing ingathering), a unity cup, and a mat—which symbolizes African cultural foundations—on which to place the items. Gifts are also exchanged on the holiday.

Originally, Kwanzaa was seen as a holiday alternative to Christmas. However, over the years, it has become a cultural celebration that is combined in many African-American homes with Christmas festivities. The official Kwanzaa Web site does caution, though, that the holiday’s cultural symbols not be mixed with other cultural or religious symbols so that the integrity of the holiday can be maintained.

Whichever holiday you are celebrating this year, or even if you choose not to celebrate, this editor hopes that you will have a happy and healthy season, and that 2010 will bring only good things to you and yours.

Antiquity Corner: Roman Military Armor and Arms

Antiquity Corner: Roman Military Armor and Arms

Pointing to a transparency projected onto a whiteboard, I asked the middle school students of Latin, “Are these legionaries or auxiliary troops of the Roman Army?” After a moment of staring at the colorful artist’s rendition of first-century Roman infantry engaging in battle with Dacian tribesman, one student raised his hand and offered, to my gratification, “I think they are auxiliaries because they are wearing scale armor.”

“Very good,” I replied. “However, you should note that one soldier is wearing scale armor (below), or lorica squamata; the others are protected by mail armor, or loricae hamatae. Now what about these fellows?” I replaced the transparency with another showing an artist’s rendition of legionary infantry.

When no answer was readily forthcoming, I pointed out that the legionaries were wearing the flexible segmented armor popular in the first and second centuries, the lorica segmentata. I also ran through the Latin names of the weapons carried by both legionaries and auxiliaries—the short sword (gladius hispanicus), dagger (pugio), spear with soft iron shank (below) that bent when it hit an enemy shield (pilum), and the curved, rectangular shield (scutum). The auxiliaries, I informed the class, were more likely to carry the oval shield (clipeus). To be accurate, the scale and mail armor was also worn by legionaries, but I did not wish to make the matter overly complicated for the youngsters. What was more important was that they learned the main difference between legionaries and auxiliaries—the former were Roman citizens who enlisted for twenty years, but could be discharged, if they wished, after sixteen years; the latter were non-citizens who enlisted for 25 years and received citizenship and a grant of land or cash only upon completion of their term of enlistment. Roman citizenship was a valuable commodity, given to discharged auxiliaries and their children, but not to their wives. The reasoning was that women could be widowed or divorced and might remarry a non-citizen who should not benefit from his wife’s status.

I also treated the class to a transparency showing Roman cavalry in full charge. The cavalry squadrons (alae) were auxiliary units. They were organized into troops (turmae) of thirty men commanded by a decurion and his second in command, a duplicarius. The best known cavalry unit on Hadrian’s Wall, in northern England, was the thousand men strong Ala Petriana. The Praefectus in command of this ala millaria was the senior military officer on Hadrian’s Wall.

Throughout the first century, cavalry squadrons were more expensively equipped than other auxiliary forces. They wore the costly mail shirts with large shoulder reinforcements and iron helmets sheathed in embossed and tinned bronze. This sheathing was worked to represent hair over which was secured an ornamental brow band with a projecting peak above. The cheek pieces were decorated with figures or heads of gods or imperial personages. The cavalry sword (spatha) was longer and narrower that the infantry gladius. It was a Romanized version of the long Celtic slashing sword, a weapon ideally suited to mounted warfare. (I did not get this detailed with the middle school students.) Roman cavalry were drilled to perform complex maneuvers on the parade ground and on the battlefield. They did so, however, without benefit of stirrups, which were not introduced until the post-Roman early medieval period.

Visitors to Hexham Abbey in Northumberland can view the gravestone of Flavinus, standard bearer (signifier) of the troop of Candidus of the Ala Petriana. The inscription tells us that Flavinus died at the age of 25, after serving for seven years. Photographs of this gravestone (like the one at top) have been used in dozens of books and pictorial displays. The armor and weapons described above were clearly rendered by the stonecutter, as was the defeated Briton cringing at the feet of the cavalryman’s rearing horse. As I informed the class suffering through my pedantry, the Romans expressed their contempt for the Britons by referring to them as the Britunculi, or wretched little Britons. Scholars have debated the exact meaning of the term for years.

I have always been fascinated by the study of Roman military arms, armor, and equipment and the changes that took place as Rome’s military forces evolved over the centuries. Like many others, I benefitted from the work of the late H. Russell Robinson, Armorer of the Tower of London. Among his many beautifully illustrated works are The Armour of the Roman Legions and What the Soldiers Wore on Hadrian’s Wall. Both books contain colored paintings by Ronald Embleton, a British artist whose work I have long admired, as well as photographs of excavated military equipment. Robinson and Embleton were the perfect literary collaborators. The books of Peter Connelly, honorary research fellow if the Institute of Archeology, University College, London, are also superbly illustrated to provide so many glimpses of Roman military life. Two of the most interesting are The Roman Army and The Roman Fort. The latter deals with a particular auxiliary unit, the First Tungrian Cohort (Cohors I Tungorum). The Tungrians served in northern England, but were originally recruited in Belgium. They were a cohors equitata millaria, a one thousand strong regiment of mixed infantry and cavalry. (One thousand was really around 800 men.) Two of the forts they served in were Housesteads and Vindolanda, both places with which I am quite familiar.

Equipment and clothing underwent great changes in the later imperial period of the third and fourth centuries. Germanic and Eastern styles and influences were prominent. The books of Graham Sumner, member of the Association of Archeological Illustrators and Surveyors, on Roman Military Clothing are well illustrated and informative. They are part of the Osprey Men-at-Arms series.

While illustrated books are highly informative, it is reenactment groups that have answered any number of questions about how Roman soldiers really functioned with the arms, armor, and equipment described. One of the best known is the Ermine Street Guard, whose members manufacture Roman equipment using Roman methods, to the degree possible, and put on displays for schools, museums, and other interested parties. To hear Centurion Chris Haynes barking orders in Latin to form line and throw pilae is quite an experience. So, if you are really interested in these things, you also can join the Roman Army— as an auxiliary, of course.

Argentinean Editor Visits her Motherland

Argentinean Editor Visits her Motherland

Last month, I had the chance to visit my oldest brother in Madrid, Spain. I was looking forward to this trip because I get along really well with my brother, Rodrigo, and he has been living in Madrid for a while. It was the perfect combination for a great adventure.

Madrid was everything I expected and more, a city full of life. There were coffee shops and snack bars called tavernas and tascas on almost every block. At first, I was like, Wait a minute, how do all of these businesses survive? There are only 2 million people in Madrid. But after a couple of days, I realized how much and how often Spaniards eat and drink. It all made sense.

My favorite place to eat was a very chic iron-glass food market called Mercado de San Miguel, located just outside Plaza Mayor. Many Madrileños (inhabitants or natives of Madrid) go there to do grocery shopping during the day, but after hours, the crowd shifts focus to beers and tapas (hors d´oeuvres); the frutería closes, and a wine bar draws a friendly crowd.

Although I’ve heard about the resemblance between Buenos Aires and Madrid, I was still pleasantly surprised by the similarities between these two places. I understood why so many Argentineans live in and love Madrid.

The city is broken up into little barrios—or neighborhoods—each one with its own personality just like in Buenos Aires. Walking on Madrid’s most popular shopping street Gran Vía feels exactly like walking on Avenida de Mayo in Buenos Aires, since both feature sophisticated buildings of art nouveau, neoclassic, and eclectic styles.

My favorite experience was my day trip to Toledo, one of the oldest medieval towns in the Iberian Peninsula. This magical place was declared a World Heritage Site by UNESCO. It was my last day in Spain. My brother was working, and I was visiting this town by myself. The idea of exploring it alone sounded really exciting. Toledo is only 90 minutes from Spain’s capital by train, yet when I arrived, I felt I had left not only Madrid but the last three centuries behind. I saw cobblestone narrow streets, the imposing Alcázar, El Greco’s masterpieces, handcrafted steel work, and beautiful and harmonious buildings. It was incredible! The funniest part was that although I had a map to explore the town on foot, I couldn’t avoid getting lost all the time. But I didn’t care; I was actually enjoying it. This picturesque town is a huge, hilly labyrinth with colorful red tiles roofs buildings and roman roads. It was a great place to get lost!

What I loved the most about Toledo is that it is possible to view Renaissance Cathedrals, Synagogues, and Mosques all in the same place. When the Moors ruled Spain (711 A.D.–1492), they practiced religious tolerance. Christianity, Judaism, and Islam coexisted in Toledo. So today there is a wonderful variety of architectural monuments of every period and civilization.

Spain is a great place to visit, especially if you enjoy art, history, architecture, and good food, and are willing relax (slowing down my NYC pace was hard for me).

Not That Tea Party, the Boston Tea Party

Not That Tea Party, the Boston Tea Party

The original Boston Tea Party took place on this date in 1773 as American colonists, dressed up as Mohawk Native Americans, boarded three British merchant ships and dumped over three hundred barrels of tea into Griffin’s Wharf in Boston Harbor. However, being the curious type, I began to wonder: Why did they dress up as Native Americans? If you’re protesting something, don’t you want the person, place or thing you’re protesting to know that you do not agree with what you’re protesting against?

One would think the obvious answer would be that the colonists were trying to avoid being recognized so they could avoid severe punishment for their crimes. It had to be pretty obvious, however, that these colonists were not Native Americans from the sheer low quality of makeup available to them in the late 18th century. As a matter of fact, many just used coal dust (soot) to darken their skin, and then painted over it and wrapped blankets around their shoulders to complete the costume. So, I assumed there must be some deeper meaning behind this.

The more I researched this question, the less clear a real answer became. Some historians believe that colonists were trying to show how un-British they were by dressing up as Mohawks. Others believe that people become more uninhibited when they are in a costume. Costumes give people a sense of freedom to behave differently and the sense that they will avoid any repercussions for their behavior.

In the end, the best answer I found was that dressing up in Native-American garb had become somewhat of a custom for colonists protesting British rule once hostilities against the crown had begun. If we’re going to be completely honest, it sounds as though Samuel Adams, John Hancock, and some of their buddies were having a meeting to express outrage over this latest tax and began to drink from the barrels of beer that were often present at political meetings of the era. After imbibing, someone came up with the brilliant idea of costumes, and the rest is history. This is my answer to a perplexing historical question that lacks a more definitive answer, based on the research I have done.

With that mystery solved, I am still trying to figure out why this year’s political tea party was even called a tea party. I am afraid the answer to that one will take more time than this blogger can invest.

Doing My Civic Duty

Doing My Civic Duty

I recently received a jury duty summons. In Queens County, where I live, you receive a letter that gives you your juror number and a telephone number that you must call after 5 p.m. on the Friday before your scheduled day of jury service. When you call, you hear a list of the juror numbers of those who should report on the following Monday morning. My number came up on Friday, so on Monday I reported to Queens County Supreme Court in Kew Gardens.

I reported to the central jury room. Based on the range of numbers called for that day there were more than 1,000 people in the room. After we completed some paperwork, a court officer began calling names and directing people to the various courtrooms. There we would be questioned by the defense and prosecuting attorneys and the judge, and selected or rejected for service on that jury.

My name was called along with 79 others. We were led to a courtroom in the criminal court. The defendant, his lawyer, an assistant district attorney, and the judge were present in the room. The prospective jurors were read the charges against the defendant. The court clerk called 16 names at a time. These people sat in the jury box in the order in which they were called. The judge related the points of the laws and asked if everyone understood them. At this point, a number of people raised their hands indicating that they did not understand. Most of these people were told to return to the central jury room. The judge asked other questions and more people were excused. Once there were 16 people in the jury box, the judge asked each of us to give our name, where we lived, our marital status, whether we had children, and what we did for a living. When I said that I edited science textbooks, the judge asked what subjects. I said, “Chemistry and physics.” He said, “Those are difficult subjects.” I replied, “Yes, for some people.” Then the judge and the lawyers conferred, deciding which of those 16 people would be seated on the jury. I was picked and became juror number seven. This process was repeated three times before 12 jurors and four alternates were picked.

When the trial began, the assistant district attorney presented her evidence first. She called police officers and experts in forensic science to testify. I found the scientific testimony very interesting. I learned that on the day of the crime, it was too cold for fingers to leave prints on a weapon. I always thought that when you touch something, the oil on your fingers leaves fingerprints. That’s how it works on N.C.I.S. and C.S.I. When it is very cold, however, there is not enough water on your fingers to leave prints. The DNA expert witness said that they recovered DNA from the weapon that was consistent with the defendant’s. Asked whether there could be more than one person with that DNA, the expert responded that unless the person had an identical twin, the chances were one in 11 billion, or one in about twice the total population of Earth. Based on the evidence presented, we, the jury, found the defendant guilty of all charges.

I believe that citizenship comes with rights and duties, and a good citizen will fulfill his or her civic duties. If that means serving jury duty every six years, I’m getting off easy.

No Dollars, No Dreams

No Dollars, No Dreams

Not in Shirley Jackson’s lottery, anyway. Her most famous (or infamous) story has zilch to do with winning Megabucks. When “The Lottery” was first published in The New Yorker back in 1948, readers reacted with shock, confusion, and nasty letters.

On December 14th, Jackson would’ve been 93 (or 90, depending on the source), but her stories are timeless. How ironic that one of my favorite psychological horror writers also wrote humorous accounts of bringing up children (Raising Demons and Life Among the Savages).

Her obituary said that because she wrote so often about ghosts, witchcraft, and magic, people said she “used a broomstick for a pen.” Her obit also said she had lots of black cats, “and believed she had caused the accident of an enemy by making a wax image of him with a broken leg.”

Jackson was born in San Francisco, grew up in Burlingame, California, and then moved to Rochester, New York. At Syracuse University, she met her future husband, Stanley Edgar Hyman, who would become a literary critic. After she died in 1965, Hyman published The Magic of Shirley Jackson, a posthumous anthology of her short stories. In his preface, he wrote that “she wanted always to be interviewed, to explain or promote her work. . . .” My impression was that she feared people wouldn’t understand what her stories and novels were saying.

It’s been years since I first read her short story collection, The Lottery and Other Stories. As a teen, at my local theater guild, I’d read a dramatized version of “The Lottery.” I forget which part I was cast as, but it wasn’t the lead. In any case, the play was cancelled.

The Lottery and Other Stories contains three selections that have disturbed me to this day.

In “The Daemon Lover” (1949), the nameless female lead is a frumpy, finicky thirty-four-year-old, preparing for her “too good to be true” wedding. The groom-to-be is “rather tall, and fair. . . . a young man. . . .who wears a blue suit very often.”

Mysterious? You bet! This “groom” is actually Jim Harris, a modern-day Devil: “The Daemon Lover,” based on the popular British Child ballad 243.

“James Harris” is a running character in many Jackson stories. Always, he’s faceless and enigmatic, but in “The Daemon Lover,” he’s unseen. You know from the get-go he stands up the lonely fiancée. You sense he had no intentions of marrying her, that this was a cruel hoax. Early in the story, Jackson writes:

“ ‘Ten o’clock then. I’ll be ready. Is it really true?’
And Jamie laughing down the hallway.”

In the article, “Shirley Jackson: Creepy,” from the ezine American Nerd, Amethyst Vineyard writes, “With the Jims and Harrises come change, both destructive and revealing. Is that what demons are, faceless people like natural disasters, ripping one out of the comfortable world and setting one down in another, more sinister one?”

“The Renegade” (1949) starts off with a family adjusting to a new life in the country. Mrs. Walpole gets an unsettling phone call from a neighbor who smugly informs her that the Walpoles’ dog has been killing his chickens.

The deal in this town is, a chicken-killing dog gets shot, and fast. Clearly, poor Lady is doomed, and Mrs. Walpole can’t stop it. Another neighbor suggests tying a dead chicken around Lady’s neck, until it rots away. Still, everybody (except Mrs. Walpole) expects Lady to get shot. Even the Walpole children gleefully anticipate Lady’s decapitation from a spiked dog collar.

But (Gradesaver.com asks), who is the “Renegade” of the title? Lady, who can’t stop killing chickens, or Mrs. Walpole, who stands out from the mob?

Out of all the stories in this collection, “The Lottery” (1948) packs the biggest punch. It begins innocently enough: cheerful villagers collect in the public square for their age-old, annual lottery. Kids stuff their pockets with stones, “selecting the smoothest, roundest ones,” Jackson writes. Finally there’s a huge pile of stones in one corner of the square.

All morning, families chit-chat and act neighborly. There’s soft laughter when one woman, Tessie Hutchinson, shows up last, saying, “Clean forgot what day it was.” She’d been busy washing dishes, and thought her husband was outside, stacking wood.

People are eager to get started, so they can go home and eat lunch, and get back to work. Old Man Warner complains that most other villages have given up the lottery: “ ‘Next thing you know, they’ll be wanting to go back to living in caves,’ ” he says; then he quotes, “ ‘Lottery in June, corn be heavy soon,’ ” before declaring that there has always been a lottery.

The male household heads draw first, for their families. When Bill Hutchinson picks the marked slip, his wife Tessie freaks. “ ‘It wasn’t fair,’ ” she says. “ ‘You didn’t give him enough time to choose.’ ” That’s when we realize that this lottery is not about money.

It’s down to the five Hutchinsons. As each chooses, we know something horrible is looming. “I hope it’s not Nancy,” Nancy’s teen classmate whispers. The crowd is relieved when Little Davy’s slip is blank.

It’s Tessie who’s the “winner.” “It isn’t fair; it isn’t right!” she screams.

What happens next will horrify you. This story is just as shocking sixty years later.

That is the magic of Shirley Jackson.