María, the professor, had eyes the color of olive stones. "The verb eimi ," she would say, "means 'I am.' But in Greek, to be is not static. It is to exist, to breathe, to become." And so we became. We declined nouns like we were trying to organize chaos. We translated sentences about gods and wars while secretly translating our own loneliness, our own small victories.
The class wasn't about grammar. It was about learning to name the wind again. About realizing that the same stars that watched Sappho watch us stumble over participles.
La clase de griego wasn't a class. It was a small boat. And every week, we sailed a little further from the shore of forgetting. La clase de griego
In la clase de griego , we learned that the word for "truth" (ἀλήθεια) means "the state of not being hidden."
In that class, time bent. The optative mood taught us how to speak of what could never be. And one night, under the flickering fluorescent light, I finally understood: we were not learning a dead language. We were learning to say I am still here —in a voice three thousand years old. María, the professor, had eyes the color of olive stones
We learned to write "ἄνθρωπος" — human. To look at the word and see ourselves: imperfect, aspirated, longing.
We spent months hiding. But between alpha and omega, between the Iliad and our own small wars, we began to undress the silence. We declined nouns like we were trying to organize chaos
And that, perhaps, was the whole point.
