As an undergraduate classics major at the University of Texas, I find myself often asked “What are you going to do with that?” That’s a hard question to answer, as it more-or-less implies that I consider my degree direct job-training—and besides academia, there are very few jobs that really necessitate an education in classics. What if I just like Latin and Greek (which is what a classics major studies at UT)? What if I don’t tie my undergraduate degree to my long-term career goals?
     But that really is a cop-out, because I think the question these accounting and government majors are trying to ask is “Why does classics matter?” That makes my career retort pretty much useless, as it is not enough to defend the study of something simply because “I think it’s pretty,” or “I like it.” There has to be a more concrete reason for my late-night exercises in reading and translation of works thousands of years old.
     I usually just try to explain to my peers that classics is a good pre-law, hoping to imply that I will someday be just as fiscally pragmatic as them, with aspirations for a corner office and plump 401(k). But while I know this to be true, and while I am fascinated by American law (and corner offices), this is not why I study classics.
     The study of classics is important because a classical viewpoint is immediately and actively relevant. It is a part of good citizenship, good cultural literacy, and, among other things, a clear sense of self. A classically trained eye can see things others can’t; in the same way those who have studied and followed the history of Irish independence and its inherent conflicts can comment and provide insight into the problem of peace in Israel, someone who has studied the political career of Cicero can form a unique idea of a politically responsible American executive. While Ireland is not at all Israel, and while Cicero is not at all President Obama, meaningful parallels can be drawn, and it is the responsibility of those with fresh and unique opinions or ideals to express them.
     It is very easy, however, to slip into “cocktail classics,” a phrase I’d like to coin based on the advice given by a professor that I should study the Aeneid because it would give me something interesting to say at cocktail parties. This is actually a mindset that marginalizes classical culture and makes it irrelevant. It puts it in the realm of subjects so frivolous that only those with the most security and free time have mastered them. It is one thing to eruditely remark on the beauty of rhetoric of Demosthenes. It is another thing entirely to form a political opinion on the self-determination of nations based on a reading of the Phillipics (a set of speeches he delivered to the Athenian assembly on the threat of Philip II of Macedon, the father of Alexander the Great).
     So maybe I should revise my opinion. Classics is as relevant as the individual chooses to make it. No subject is inherently relevant or meaningful to everyday life—my government and accounting friends will have to place their education in a meaningful context every time they change jobs. Classicists must do so also, and not be defensive when people ask them why their education is important. I don’t seek to defend the irrelevance of classics. I want to encourage people (classicists and non-classicists alike) to make it relevant.