Closing the Doors of Our Classrooms,
Opening Our Minds to the World
Jacquelyn Bonavia
Anthropology, Classical Humanities
UW – Madison
I hereby affirm that this is an original essay and my own work.
My best friend is a business major who was recently accepted into the Wisconsin School
of Business. My family is incredibly proud of him for being accepted into this prestigious
institution. His father is an engineer; his mother, a businesswoman. When I met them, I
expected them to be equally proud of me for my success within my majors, anthropology and
classical humanities, and my certificate, archaeology. However, when I told them my majors,
his father was silent, and his mother responded, ―Oh…,‖ in a tone that instantly made me feel
embarrassed about my liberal education. However, I have become involved in activities that
have led me to understand that my liberal education extends beyond the classroom in a broad
range of extracurricular and undergraduate research opportunities that literally open up a world
of possibilities of which I can feel proud—opportunities a more narrowly focused education
would not provide.
Classroom instruction sets a necessary foundation for liberal education, but it is just that,
a foundation. There is nothing liberal about a one-method approach to learning. Knowledge
gained in classrooms provides the necessary background for out-of-classroom experiences, but it
may be impossible to appreciate classroom education without application. During my first
semester, I did research projects about ancient lithic technology—stone tool production. Two of
my professors discussed this technology in class, suggesting it was difficult to produce some
complex points. However, the tools appeared simplistic, and the technology looked easy; I
jumped to the conclusion that the people who manufactured these tools long ago were not
particularly skilled. If I truncated my education there, my understanding would be inaccurate.
Intrigued, I joined the Anthropology Department’s experimental archaeology club concerning
lithic technology, more commonly known as the Flint-knapping Circle. We met every Friday
afternoon for two hours. I attempted to create arrowheads, and, by the end of the academic year,
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I had produced almost nothing resembling the ones I had seen in class. Only then could I
appreciate the skills involved in the production of the useful, often beautiful, tools created in
ancient times. If I told my friend’s parents about flint-knapping, they would probably still not be
impressed, but what if I told them that the skill I learned at flint-knapping was not how to create
stone tools, but rather the skill to understand the lives of others, past or present?
During my sophomore year, I took a class about the archaeological site of Bronze Age
Troy and Greek and Roman Ilion. I attended lectures, read articles, wrote essays, studied for
exams. I learned facts about archaeologists who studied at Troy and about the Bronze Age
Trojan and Greco-Roman Ilian ways of life. I could regurgitate data that I did not understand,
quote conclusions from articles about research of which I did not know the details, and talk about
the debates of archaeologists who I had never met. I knew many simple facts but could not truly
understand the lives of the Trojans or the Ilians, nor could I fully appreciate the lives of the team
of international archaeologists or local people, living near the site today. The professor for the
course, recognizing the essential out-of-classroom component of a liberal education, takes a few
students with him to Troy in northwestern Turkey to supplement his course each summer. Last
summer he invited me to participate in this hands-on research, enhancing my education more
than I could have imagined.
When approaching the Bronze Age fortification walls, which towered above me even
after thousands of years of erosion, I could finally understand the enormity of their defense
structures, inspiring me to imagine the Trojans’ fear, which was necessitated by their location at
the crossroads of Asia and Europe, between the Mycenaean and Hittite civilizations. However, I
spent more time considering the Greek and Roman Ilians than the Bronze Age Trojans. After
calculating a temple reconstruction in a religious sanctuary and taking measurements on an
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associated altar, the ruins rebuilt themselves in my mind, and I could imagine people performing
secret rites and making sacrifices at the altar. In addition to imagining the elite of this mystery
cult, masonry marks and marble chips reminded me of the workers’ labor. For example, Greek
letters inscribed into the sanctuary walls, which are not obvious on photographs displayed in
class, helped me appreciate the labor of Greek masons. Similarly, marble flakes preserved in an
unexcavated hillside allowed me to picture workers strenuously chipping marble and sweeping
aside the debris as they constructed the temple.
Possibly the most meaningful things I learned in Turkey were not about the Trojans or
Ilians but rather the archaeologists and locals, with whom I personally interacted or about whom
I heard first-hand stories. I could more fully understand the former director, who was discussed
in class, as the team celebrated his life on the anniversary of his death with heartfelt stories of his
domineering personality. They reflected on how he demanded attention when he spoke, insisted
on punctuality, and required participation in nighttime dance parties. In this context, I could
understand the research being done under his direction. Similarly, through personal interactions,
I learned about other archaeologists whose publications I had read. After observing them at
work, I no longer need to regurgitate facts without understanding how they were obtained.
While observing one researcher’s interactions with others, I noticed that he, with his quiet voice,
shy smile, and kind manners, received more respect than any patronizing figure at the site. He
opened my mind not only to the context of the data he obtained, but also to living more
compassionately. The team of archaeologists consisted of people from Germany, Turkey, the
United States, and several other countries. It was inspiring to see cooperation from people with
such diverse backgrounds and interesting to hear stories about Germans and Americans working
together on this project shortly after WWII. The ability to recognize similarities and set aside
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prejudices is something that is not often included in classroom lessons. Just as important as
understanding their international colleagues, researchers abroad must shun prejudices and seek to
understand the locals.
As I was preparing for my trip, people encouraged me to carry a money-belt to protect
my belongings from ―greedy foreigners,‖ but my experience further opened my mind to foreign
cultures. The wife of a Turkish worker on site operated a souvenir stand. I wanted to purchase a
trinket, and, in my poor Turkish, I asked, ―Ne kadar?‖—―How much?‖ She responded, ―Gift,‖
and handed the trinket to me. Feeling guilty, I returned to her shop. After I bought an item, she
motioned for me to wait, and, with a smile, handed me a bottle of water. ―Gift,‖ she said again.
Her generosity astounded me, but I quickly learned it was not unique. At a nearby restaurant, a
waiter served my table several free dishes and even a toy for an archaeologist’s child.
―Presents.‖ The shop owner and waiter taught me valuable lessons about stereotypes and
generosity, lessons that I could not learn in a classroom.
Through out-of-classroom activities, such as Flint-knapping Circle and research abroad, a
liberal education offers students a real-life understanding of their study focus. More importantly,
liberal educational experiences inspire students to open their minds and more broadly understand
the world in which we live. Like my friend’s parents, I may encounter people who do not
understand the meaningfulness of a liberal education. I will not mind. I am proud of my
education: To me, it is a hediye, a gift.
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