When your ethics professor brings Ancient Greek philosophy into discussion for the first time, your initial thought might be of a white-bearded senior citizen wearing a toga and notably teetering with theories of virtue and justice.  He emits a perpetual sense of curiosity and wonder while prying into the cracks of human nature.  If the universe were a clock, he would contemplate how it works, how it ticks, why it ticks, what time it tells and what that time means, or perhaps why the time it tells should matter to us anyway.  This image, regardless how generic, fits the description of one of the most admirable and controversial minds of history, the founding father of philosophy: Socrates.  Far from being just another name in a history book, Socrates’ views and methods of inquiry set the pace for future philosophers.  He was the Mohammed Ali, the William Shakespeare, or the Leonardo DaVinci of philosophy.

Socrates was born approximately 469 B.C.E. in a little village just outside of Athens.  The date is not exactly known by anyone, particularly because his birth was not nearly as paramount as his death.  As a child, he worked with his father Sophroniscus, a successful sculptor, until Socrates was sent to study with the philosophers Anaxagoras, Archelaus, and Parmenides of Elea.  He quickly found his bearings in philosophy, as these three wise men were but stepping stones for Socrates’ real potential.  But unlike these and many other pre-Socratic philosophers, Socrates refrained from attempting to explain the natural world around him, viewing it as an utterly hopeless endeavor.  Rather, he explored the universe hidden within a man’s soul (or psyche, as the Greeks would say), which he believed to be immortal and infinite.  That, as he would say, is the greater journey.

As things progressed for Socrates, Athens and Sparta grew to war with each other in 431 B.C.E.  Now in his late thirties, Socrates enlisted as a hoplite (private, third class) in the Peloponnesian War.  As a hoplite, or foot soldier, a man was required to provide his own armor and weapons for battle.  Socrates did just that.  With his body cast in iron armor, helmet, shield and sword, “Socrates distinguished himself for bravery at the siege of Potidaea, 431/30, and again at the defeat of Athenians by the Boeotians in 424.”

With no apparent need for comfort, he was renowned for his simplistic attire worn year-round.  He “not only looked like a philosopher, he dressed like one.  Winter and summer he invariably wore the same shabby tunic with a threadbare half-length cloak,” and went about barefoot regardless of weather conditions.  His comrades were perplexed by his relentless composure, as if he were a stone weathering a storm.  His ability to endure great personal hardship without complaint allowed Socrates to make quite a name for himself.

Despite his time spent smashing shields with Spartans, Socrates never held an occupation other than the one he regarded as the most important.  He was a philosopher, and unlike many sophists of his time, Socrates refused to receive payment from the students he taught.  Hence, he criticized the sophists for doing so.  He would never admit to being wise, much less a teacher.  It’s no surprise he never wrote anything down, he believed himself as ignorant as the next man.  After returning from war, Socrates was greeted by an old friend, Chaerephon, whom spoke of a visit to Delphi.  While there, Chaerephon found himself in the temple of Apollo. Present was an oracle to answer inquires from pilgrims of all kinds.  At the time, the Greeks believed some women to have greater spirituality than others, which made them sufficient mediums through whom the gods often spoke.  The oracles would undergo trance-like states, as if invoked with the very spirit of Apollo.  Curiously, Chaerephon asked of the oracle if there lived anyone of greater wisdom than Socrates, to which she answered that there was no one.  Puzzled upon hearing the response of the oracle, Socrates sought out to test the theory by questioning men with a reputation for wisdom.  Hence, he sought out a supposedly wise politician, and after interrogating his mind to pieces, Socrates “decided that he seemed wise to a lot of people, and especially to himself, but in fact he was not.”  He would not be so easily satisfied.  Socrates persistently engaged in conversation with anyone he encountered, testing each one and often making the man contradict himself.  His smart-aleck, sarcastic, and sometimes patronizing inquires often left his opponents unsettled and aggravated.  No doubt, he became notorious for provoking anger in the wisest of men.

His favorite spot to consort with (and irritate) Athenians was the Stoa of Zeus Eleutherios in the Agora, a “shady colonnade lined with stallholders selling wares.”  The Agora served as a marketplace for Athens, with dusty shops and stalls, and was later converted to town center to house government and political matters such as the people’s court.  With such a strange appearance, awkward attitude, no apparent concern for clothes or possessions, and a resounding condescension in his conversations, Socrates was a familiar figure on the streets of Athens.  He sustained that extent of his own genius was, as he would say, that he knew nothing except the fact of his own ignorance.  Much later he realized why the oracle recognized him as wise—”for he more than anyone else appreciated the limits of his own knowledge.”

Ultimately, the provoking system of questioning men left Socrates with few devoted followers and numerous enemies.  His followers were often wealthy young gentlemen, like Plato, whom were generous to offer an open ear to his relentless questioning and skepticism.  Without being bolted to a cross, he acted as an enlightened father-figure to the youth of Athens.  In 423, Socrates was ridiculed by the comical playwright Aristophanes.  In his play “The Clouds,” Aristophanes “portrayed Socrates as a master of pointless wordplay and verbal trickery. The head of an institute called ‘The Thinkery,’ he literally had his head in the clouds.”  This illustrated mockery of Socrates became quite popular in Athens, and had ultimately damaging effects on the community’s view of him.  Initially, Socrates didn’t see this as a threat, and viewed it more like a roast: close friends poking fun in a public fashion.

However, with far more enemies than friends, this depiction of Socrates was a loudspeaker to broadcast an already popular image of a threat in Athens.  In the year of 399 B.C.E., three meddlesome citizens, Anytus, Lycon, and Meletus, approached King Archon concerning the prosecution of Socrates, on the grounds of corrupting the youth and refusing to worship ancestral gods.  Upon this, Socrates was given four days to visit King Archon to state his defense and go to trial.  As a citizen of Athens, Socrates happily obliged.  Next, the trial was held over the course of a full day, in the court of the Agora of Athens.  The recorded indictment in the court of Athens stated:

“Meletus, son of Miletus, of the deme of Pitthus, indicts Socrates, son of Sophroniscus, of the deme of Alopecae, on his oath, to the following effect.  Socrates is guilty (i) of not worshipping the gods whom the State worships, but introducing new and unfamiliar religious practices; (ii) and, further, of corrupting the young.”

The jury consisted of 501 male citizens, and much unlike the courtrooms today, a majority vote was the rule rather than the exception.

During the hearing, Meletus presented his argument first.  In addition to the charges placed on Socrates, Meletus warned the jury of Socrates’ manipulative eloquence and rhetoric, claiming he would attempt to trick the jury with verbiage.  Given his chance to speak (arguments were short and timed with a water-clock), Socrates promptly replied to this warning by promising only truth, and asked to be forgiven in his lack of eloquent speech, for he wished not to mislead the jury.  He maintained that his life and actions in Athens were not unjust or impious in any way, but a good deed to Athens and its citizens.  Juries at the time were easily swayed by sob stories and suck-ups.  Yet, instead of catering to the jury by displaying a “pitiful appeal” or showing any remorse, he chose to lecture them on these discreditable practices of their court.  Socrates, while on trial for his life, condemned the procedures of the Athenian court and its jurors.  With ironclad principles in hand, Socrates smirked at Death from across the courtroom.

The time to vote had come, and the judges did so by dropping pebbles into earthenware jars.  Of the 501 judges, 280 voted for conviction, with a majority of barely sixty people.  Had thirty people decided to acquit instead of convict Socrates, he would have walked.  Athenian law required both Socrates and Meletus to suggest a sentence.  Meletus demanded the death penalty; however, Socrates refused to suggest anything.  He remained a rock, unmoved in his belief that he had done no wrong, and in fact, that he was a public benefactor to Athens.  As a just and deserving sentence, he thought, Socrates proposed he should be granted free meals at the expense of Athens, an honor offered to Olympian athletes.  He finally settled to pay a small fine to the state, which Plato and other supporters immediately multiplied thirty-fold.  Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough.  Socrates had infuriated the jury with his cavalier behavior and resilience to weep and wail for his life.  It was a Pyrrhic victory for Socrates; he refused to yield in mercy and signed his death warrant.  Without discussion, the jury voted on the sentence—the penalty was death by poison hemlock.  Socrates, upon hearing the verdict, remained undaunted.

Over the next month, he sat patiently in his cell awaiting his execution, as a man might wait for his coming vacation trip.  During this time, a faithful follower, Crito, came to Socrates pleading with him to escape imprisonment and flee Athens.  Crito had arranged the escape and would pay for all bribes necessary.  Money was of no concern.  However, Socrates saw no reason to leave the city in which he lived all his life.  He took no evasive actions, even after being sentenced to death.  As a citizen of Athens, he was bound by her laws.  He personified the law in Athens, portraying for Crito what the law would say to this evasion, being Socrates faithfully lived by Athenian law all his life.  During the four days given to approach King Archon and the time before the actual trial, Socrates had the opportunity to leave Athens and avoid conviction.  This alternative would have been happily accepted, if not advised.  Yet, even in the absence of guilt, Socrates embraced his fate, and “he looked forward to meeting the immortals.”

After a month’s time, Socrates’ execution was to take place.  He was required to drink a toxic mixture extracted from hemlock, a poisonous plant in the parsley family.  The plants toxins directly target the central nervous system, calmly shutting down nerve endings, numbing the body into paralysis, and ultimately falling into a fatal sleep.  As the cup was handed to Socrates, he “received it quite cheerfully…without a tremor, without any change in colour or expression.”    Surrounded by friends and followers, all eyes were fixed upon him.  As if he were toasting with friends, he raised the cup to his lips, and calmly, without distaste, gulped down the poison in a single shot.  At this sight, the room began to weep and sob broken-heartedly.  The deed was done.  Yet Socrates, as he realized this, replied sternly: “My friends, what a way to behave…Calm yourselves and be brave.”  He walked around his cell lethargically, until his feet became heavy, dragging behind him like stones attached to his legs.  He then laid down, having been over-encumbered by the effects of the hemlock.  Sleepily, he suggested to Crito that he sacrifice a cock to the god Asclepius, to ensure the well-being of his soul in the after-life.

“It shall be done,” Crito responded, “are you sure that there is nothing else?”  To this, Socrates gave no reply.  His body remained still, cast in iron and statuesque, and Crito closed his eyes and mouth.  “This…was the end of our comrade, who as…of all those whom we know the bravest and also the wisest and most just.”  His execution profoundly changed ideas about heroism, primarily because his death was due to his refusal of abandoning his own principles.

My father was my role model. My father was a great man. My father was a drug addict. Some would say my choice in heroes is poorly made, given the options available to me. But I have witnessed no better. He was not a saint, but I choose him for his flaws as well as his strengths. My father was an addict, recovering and relapsing, yet still an amazing person. He was one whose character I respected and admired, omitting only the parts I didn’t agree with. He was my tragic hero, my invincible warrior with a vulnerable heel.

My father was a polymath, a genius, a renaissance man, and the DaVinci of my life. In a world of drummers, he marched to his own jazz band. For him, the voyage of learning was far greater than the act of knowing. There was always something more to know, something he could learn, some chunk of genius he could sink into. He took a particular interest in how things worked, and nibbled on details of ancient civilizations and wonders of the world. He tinkered with puzzles, planted lush gardens, and refinished furniture. My father prepared meals fit for a king. Each sauce he made had a story to tell of how, who, where and when. Every meal came with its own history lesson. He was an artist with a side of perfectionist. Everything he touched had to be one hundred percent, nothing half-assed. His mind was a labyrinth, complete with mystery, dark corners, and dead ends.

From facial features to foods we like, my father and I are almost identical. The act of using drugs is the only trait he and I didn’t share. I never needed a doctor to tell me that drug addiction could be hereditary. My father had eight brothers and sisters, and each one hosted a severe drug addiction at one time or another. All were intelligent individuals, all struggled with addiction, and all suffered from depression. Half of them made suicide attempts, and one succeeded. I suppose it’s a little consolation to say it was in our blood, as if they had less responsibility for their actions.

In times of relapse, my father hazily glided through life gorging on a buffet of narcotics, his little roller coaster of substance abuse. Cocaine was his preference, or more accurately, his weakness. It was the monkey on his back, as he so eloquently put it, the one he struggled so hopelessly to shake off. Cocaine was my father’s Kryptonite, the soldier’s arrow embedded in his tender heel.

The addiction was always a secret; he never openly spoke of drugs to me. Everything was in code, and the nicknames were abundant: crack, coke, crystal, blow, booger sugar, freebase, nose candy, happy dust, white lady, white horse, snort, snow, speedball, stardust, yayo, and my particular favorite, the stuff. Stuff was what needed to be picked up from the store when my sister and I couldn’t tag along. Stuff was why my family moved five times before junior high school. Stuff kept my father from calling me for months at a time.

My father’s addiction was a mix between business and pleasure, although I question how much of it was actually enjoyed. Contrary to the luminescence Hollywood gives drug dealers, there was nothing glamorous about selling dope. My father wasn’t Scarface rolling around in money. The family barely made ends meet, if they could find the ends at all. New faces frequented my house daily, and I met a new “cousin” or “uncle” once a week. It was normal for me. Italians families are like that; everyone was family, no matter who the hell you were.

Often I awoke late at night at my parents’ fighting, mostly about money or missing stuff. He’d usually punch a hole in the wall, curse and yell at my mother while she sobbed in the kitchen. Occasionally my dad would disappear for a few days, breaking away for rehab or whatever. My mother’s shakes and sniffles would keep me awake at night. My sister and I would hug her, and she’d cry more, realizing we were listening the whole time.

In place of pearls of wisdom, my father taught me history. I learned about marijuana, the different types, how to grow it and use it. I knew that Coca-Cola (at one point in time) actually had cocaine in it, and the recipe was changed in the early 1900′s. Acid was a hallucinogen, and there were good trips and bad ones. He taught me the health benefits of using natural drugs instead of man made varieties. I knew about the Navajo tribe, and how their use of peyote was righteous and sacred (or how to cut the cactus and extract the mescaline). I knew heroin’s chemical compound broke down to morphine before I could multiply. His addiction for knowledge quickly became my own. I learned everything I could about drugs. Absorbing every detail meticulously like some twisted obsession, I studied the evil that was killing my father. These were my pearls of wisdom.

Role model or not, as a dad he was anything but perfect. I didn’t come with a manual, and the hospital was fresh out of father-son parenting books the day I was born. He and I talked a lot, but we never really bonded the way I would see in the movies. We never played catch. He didn’t help me with my homework. He didn’t rouse me at five o’clock in the morning to take me fishing. He never shared a beer with me while we talked about girls. I missed out on those experiences, and in their place I got my pearls of wisdom, a Broadway play of trial and error.

Although addictive personalities swarmed through my family tree, alcohol never posed a problem with my father. He could drink a fish under the table and solve a Rubik’s cube simultaneously. A few glasses of Christian Brother’s Brandy and my dad became the most lovable sonofabitch on the planet. He’d sit at the kitchen table sipping generously, gabbing on about politics and how we kids took everything for granted. “You shouldn’t take everything for face value, ya know. You’re smarter than that.” His slushy words and lubricated chuckles seemed to lighten the gloom of our lives. It quickly became a very welcome substitute for his substance abuse. Anything that left him coherent and conscious of my existence was accepted in my eyes, if not openly encouraged.

Marijuana fell into a slightly similar category of substitutes. With weed he was harmless, tranquilized and lethargic, sitting there glassy-eyed in his tattered recliner watching civil war movies, completely robbed of urgency or anger. He was peaceful then, serene, and everybody smiled on days like that.

When sobriety occasionally stopped by, my father and I would sit and talk for hours as if he had been saving his words for weeks. He’d tell me I was the reason he would stay clean this time, or that his children were his anti-drug. That concept always stayed with me. I made initiative to call him often, constantly reminding him of his family. I had a responsibility to keep him focused, to keep him from lingering too far with temptations and chemical happiness. If I talked to him every week, if my life was good and he was a part of that, then he’d have no reason to go back. We were Daedalus and Icarus, but with opposite roles. I, the son, reminded my father of the dangers in flying so high with fake wings. My advice was sporadically successful.

My father taught me how to win in life, and showed me how to lose. He was a man of character, pride, and uncompromising spirit. He was a man of faults, flaws and imperfections. He was my tragic hero, the fallen angel climbing out of the mud, painfully realizing the price of free will. He taught me how to survive by exploiting his weakness. He reminded me of my “potential,” and how I was going to make a difference in the world. Like my father, I too have been dipped in the river Styx, and must always keep watch for falling arrows.