One of the many virtues of Trinity University (both for students and faculty) is its support of taking risks, of trying something new. Almost 25 years ago, Trinity graciously allowed me, a freshly minted assistant professor, to design a course in an emerging branch of classical studies, one rather awkwardly called “reception studies.” This new subset of the field focused on the “reception” of Greco-Roman antiquity in later cultures and social climates, with a special emphasis on how the meaning of a work is reconstituted over time.
So I created “Antiquity and Modernity,” which I now consider the vaguest course title ever. (Perhaps I should have included “and Tomorrow,” just to cover all bases.) But that preposterously expansive name reflected the petri dish nature of the subject matter, which, in the finest Trinity tradition, allowed for experimentation and juxtapositions that more rigid programs might quash. This was mostly for the better, but occasionally for the, um, less better. So to my very first group of “Antiquity and Modernity”ers (in 2003!), I hereby apologize profusely for assigning Ezra Pound’s World War I-inflected Homage to Sextus Propertius.
I am so, so sorry. And I salute you.
Over time, though, that course became the primary engine of my research (and often those of Trinity students, including their senior theses and interdisciplinary projects in other departments). And as I included more and more versions of Homer and especially Euripides’ Iphigenia at Aulis, I saw that a huge section of the course would always include receptions of the ancient world that commented on contemporary American conflicts, whether World War I, World War II, Vietnam, or Iraq. Often, those versions would focus on the psychology of an individual hero or soldier under the stresses of conflict, both political and personal.
At Trinity, we always emphasize that a main purpose of a course is to develop and practice critical-thinking skills, of sifting through data and drawing well-reasoned conclusions about art, science, or policy. So it’s no wonder that the concepts we explored in “Antiquity and Modernity” can help us contemplate one of the hottest topics in American pop culture right now: Christopher Nolan’s film The Odyssey. Much has been made of the movie’s “Americanization” of the accents (and the story)—but that won’t come as a surprise to anybody who has taken the course. Indeed, I taught Lisa Peterson and Denis O’Hare’s An Iliad for more than 10 years—in which Homer is transparently a displaced American veteran.
What’s admirable about Nolan’s film is its seriousness of purpose: He comments on contemporary warfare and post-traumatic stress disorder with a mighty ethical sense; and even if (as a critic) I question some of his choices, I appreciate the attempt to keep classics in our national conversation about what America is now (and what modern America might yet be).
I was overjoyed that my last class at Trinity was the 2026 iteration of “Antiquity and Modernity,” after which I retired to the extremely balmy clime of ... Houston. But I appreciate the opportunity to ruminate a bit over a course that was integral to my academic life as well as the university that offered me the chance to take a chance. And a special shout-out to all the Trinity alumni who have forwarded to me their often extremely passionate takes on Nolan’s The Odyssey: Nothing warms the cockles of a professor’s heart more than hearing that a course ( just like Homer!) possesses an enduring afterlife!
Editor's Note: In the image at the top of the story, Thomas Jenkins (center) poses for a photo with Rubén Dupertuis, the dean of the Carlos Alvarez School of Arts and Humanities, and Classical Studies Professor Timothy O'Sullivan.