The Mentor
By: Héctor Vila
Tags: Mwc Work, Teaching And Learning, Mwc Space, Philosophy, Mentor

Sergey Petrovich Postnikov (1838–1880) PD-art-100 Wikimedia

One day, a young first year student comes up to me and says, “Yo, brotha Hector, why can’t you take me under your wing?”

He said it just like that at the end of one of our final classes of the semester. He reached over with his right hand and placed it in mine and swung his left arm over and embraced me.

“Yeah, brotha Hector. Mentor me,” he insisted softly. “Mentor me. Why don’t you mentor me? Yeah, I’m serious. Take me under your wing,” he said with a pleasant, endearing grin.

Mentor — having the form of an agent. Latin, monitor — to remember, think, counsel. The name of the Ithacan noble whose disguise the goddess Athena assumed in order to act as the guide and adviser of the young Telemachus; allusively, one who fulfills the office which the supposed Mentor fulfilled towards Telemachus — hence a common noun: An experienced and trusted counselor.

I’ve been grappling with this word, mentor, ever since I first heard it in conjunction with my name.

My grandfather’s name is Héctor, as is my father’s and mine. There is also the Hector of Greek mythology (without the Spanish accent), the Trojan prince and the greatest fighter for Troy in the Trojan War; first born son of King Priam and Queen Hebuca, descendant of Dardanus and Tros, the founder of Troy. During the European Middle Ages, Hector figures as one of the Nine Worthies noted by Jacques de Longuyon, known only by his courage but also for his noble and courtly nature. Homer places Hector as peace-loving, thoughtful as well as bold, a good son, husband and father. A difficult model to follow.

Was my father my mentor? How would he be me in this instance? What of him would I transmit to this innocent student? Did those that mentored my father also mentor me — and I don’t even know? Is this how it works: we are guided and advised by those that came before, the long line that can date back hundreds of years. I think this is true; it may be what we reflect — our long histories of having been taught by unseen hands.

What’s in your name?

Hector is slain in a brutal fight with Achilles, who slits his heels, and passes the girdle that Ajax had given Hector through the slits. Achilles fastens the girdle to his chariot and drives his fallen enemy through the dust of the Danaan camp.

Kids don’t know the weight of their questions, the weight of words. The most difficult challenge for me has been taking jurisdiction over myself and move my entire being — my sense of self — into feeling that I fit in, anywhere, any time and under any circumstance.

Why don’t you take me under your wing? clung to my conscience, a hallowed white wing, outstretched, soft, protective. And I’m looking down on it, spread out over the student’s head, carefully drawing him in, just a wing, an allusive one at that, referencing something implied, as in a life, your life, the student’s life. So we learn to adapt.

When we teach, students witness how we’ve adapted, how creative we’ve been in our identity-forming journey. How creative we’ve been with influences.

Why don’t you take me under your wing?

Is this the right question, my brother student?

For me to enter the I that is you, we need to be in each other’s hands, spreading our wings together. This is adaptation.

Was it a vision, or a waking dream? We ultimately ask ourselves along with Keats. Fled is that music: — Do I wake or sleep?

I’ve matured into a very different kind of teacher, mentor, empathizer — one who is willing to walk with students wherever they are.

We have to walk together. It’s the only learning I know. This is arduous; there is an art to all this: the very movement of incorporation, as Jacques Derrida says, is artful.