Former Brandeis student and future Rabbi Emily Dana has a great post about how our bodies tell our stories, inspired by and engaged with Odysseus’ scar. I know she read some of Auerbach’s Mimesis recently, but she gets a bit proustian too:
Trauma leaves scars whether we like it or not. Sometimes those scars are visible, but other times we hardly know that they exist until the exact moment that they decide to present themselves to us–the word that reminds us of our scariest memory or a dispute with a friend that jerks us back into childhood, or even a certain smell that is connected to a memory.
What I deeply appreciate about the way Emily puts this is that it draws upon the powerful ambiguity of the traumatic. The Greek word trauma can mean “wound” but it also means “hurt” or “damage”. In modern English usage, trauma can denote a physical ailment (think “blunt force trauma”), but it more often refers to the invisible marks physical suffering can leaving behind.
The Etymology of the word is disputed by modern linguists, but Byzantine scholars presented a folk etymology that it is “from trô (titrôskô [“to pierce, wound”]) [with both spellings] trôma and trauma. It is etymologized from blood flowing [to rheein] through it.” (Τραῦμα: Παρὰ τὸ τρῶ, τὸ τιτρώσκω, τρῶμα καὶ τραῦμα· ἐτυμολογεῖται δὲ παρὰ τὸ ῥέειν δι’ αὐτοῦ τὸ αἷμα, Etymologicum Magnum).
I have spent some time obsessed with this scene over the past few years, seeing the word for scar in versions of Odysseus’ name and finding both wonder and horror in how Eurykleia is instrumentalized to be witness to Odysseus’ history. The scar-scene is one of several moments of recognition in the epic, opportunities for Odysseus’ identity to be confirmed and re-performed. Each one depends on an external sign that carries a story with it. A bed for Odysseus and Penelope; a grove of trees for father and son.
But I also think that beneath this is the recognition that bodies which do not tell stories–perfect, unmarked, even fictional or fictionalized bodies–present a problem in the Odyssey‘s world. The unblemished beauty of the suitors and the young princes among the Phaeacians stand almost in monstrous contrast to Odysseus. The age of his body and the scar from his youth tell his story and represent the promise of kleos to come. An unmarked body is one without a story–or one from which story has been erased.
Emily’s deeply felt post made me think of a twitter thread from last year when I talked about the Odyssey with my daughter:
#ClassicsParenting Thread
About a month ago my daughter (7, now 8) tried to jump from a dresser to a bed and missed. She lacerated her leg 5 inches long and down to the bone (1/7)— sententiae antiquae (@sentantiq) July 16, 2018
#ClassicsParenting
She did not cry when it happened but did not want to look at the wound for weeks. After the stitches came out she was upset about the scar’s appearance (3/ 7)— sententiae antiquae (@sentantiq) July 16, 2018
#ClassicsParenting
I also told her that some people think that the Roman name #Ulysses may be related to the Greek word for scar (oulê) and that who he is was tied to this mark on his body (5/7)— sententiae antiquae (@sentantiq) July 16, 2018
#ClassicsParenting
She now sees the scar as something that is uniquely hers as something that marks her out as special, as giving her her own story. (6/7)— sententiae antiquae (@sentantiq) July 16, 2018
#ClassicsParenting
Today she would leave the house without covering it. She went swimming for the first time in a month. Thank you #Odysseus, #Homer, and #Classics. Today you made me a better parent. (7/7)— sententiae antiquae (@sentantiq) July 16, 2018
Update: She kept going to swimming lessons…but still hesitates to wear shorts. And, thanks Emily, for reminding me.
