Pueri et Puellae Certantes

Latin Olympics revel in gender and case

It was hardly a typical teen-ager's dream vacation. One thousand two hundred and fifty students were jammed together in sweltering, un-airconditioned dorms in the 101DEG F. Florida heat. There was all the excitement of a library reading room at high noon: teen-agers hunched in corners, muttering over dog-eared textbooks or stacks of index cards. The prevailing sense of humor was as old as the Roman hills: bantering buttons with such slogans as DA MI OSCULUM LATINE LOQUOR (Kiss me, I speak Latin) and ATLAS IS TOO STONED TO CARE.

But to the membership of the National Junior Classical League at Florida State University in Tallahassee last week, the Latin fest was like nectar to the gods. Classical scholars all, they had assembled from as far away as Alaska and Hawaii to compete in the Olympic Games of Latin Students, the 24th national J.C.L. competition. An elite group, 95% college bound, the delegates were variously attracted by sheer love of the classics, as well as affection for historic trivia and the fascination of what is difficult. Says Mike LaComb, 19, a St. Lawrence University freshman: "There's a thrill to the exacting form and pattern of the language."

Throughout the six-day convention, competition for ten coveted rosettes was, ipso facto, difficult indeed. Contenders in the Pentathlon had to work against the clock in proving to a computer their mastery of mythology, grammar and history. Nearby classrooms resounded to the ring of Ovid and Livy as the oratorical-minded --swathed in togas--declaimed before judges. Other judges trod carefully past papier-mache Pantheons and temples and an intricate mosaic depicting Medea fleeing to Athens, constructed from rice, grits and glue by a Tennessee contestant.

Elsewhere, Virginia creamed Texas and California to win the Certamen--a classical version of the College Bowl quiz --with state teams battling it out onstage over the lingua mater. "What case is required for the object of vescorl" shot out Questioner James Minter, 25, a candidate at Columbia University for a Ph.D. in classics. Flashing lights signaled the correct answer: "The ablative." Sample sticklers: "What Italian myth figure changed into a woodpecker?" "What Latin emperor was transformed, in a satire, into a pumpkin?" Answers: Picus and Claudius.

And then, the grand finale: a triumphal procession across the campus, with togas ($20 or less) fashioned from pastel bed sheets. The Florida contingent was led by an aspiring--and perspiring --Ulysses, clad in bright gold-fabric armor. Would-be Legionnaires--all male --captained chariots crafted from barrels and aluminum sheeting, drawn by teams of giggling girls. Chauvinistic? Perhaps, but the girls didn't mind. Nor did they balk at a slave auction, in which the prettiest sold for up to $50 in aid of a book fund. Successful bidders got a coed for the day to rub their backs, feed them grapes at a Roman banquet that night--and do whatever else that might pass by the watchful chaperones.

Despite the conventioneers' exuberance, Latin is still languishing in American high schools. The number of students taking it dropped precipitously from 626,199 in 1965 to 184,445 in 1974, and courses were deleted as being too dry and dusty. But the appeal of the arcanum shows signs of reviving Latin, along with the current educational drift back to basics. New courses in mythology and literature in translation have attracted students too. One innovative, popular program--used in ghetto schools to reinforce basic English grammar--even teaches conversational Latin by audiovisual methods. Besides, says Minter, "the classics still have a snob appeal--which we try to play to the hilt."

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