My son Fergus was about 10 years old when he discovered the Phoenicians.
It was not the first passion in his young life. Before that had been lawnmowers and digital clocks and running in circles and, of course, Legos. Fergus was diagnosed with autism when he was 3. So, by the time he was 10, we were used to his passions, which could come as suddenly and intensely as a summer storm and end just as abruptly.
One year we bought him a computer game called Age of Empires. The game involved building ancient civilizations — Athenian, Roman, Yamato and others — through a series of computer-gaming moves. Fergus played all of them obsessively but ultimately got hooked on the Phoenicians. And I mean really hooked.
He played Age of Empires for hours nonstop, but only the Phoenician part. And when he wasn’t playing, he was talking about the Phoenicians. Who they were, where they came from, what they built, who they fought and so on. He brought home picture books from the school library about the Phoenicians: their history, culture, economy — whatever he could find. He looked at maps of the ancient world to locate them. (They originated in the eastern Mediterranean, in what is now Lebanon. Now I know.)
One morning during all this, I took him to the dentist to have his teeth cleaned. The dentist was always a tense and emotional trip for Fergus, who wasn’t comfortable with strangers under any circumstances but positively hated having strangers put things in his mouth.
Our practice was that I would accompany him into the hygienist’s office and sit beside him holding his hand while the hygienist did her thing. On that particular morning, Fergus was barely paying attention to what was going on around him. He was talking about the Phoenicians.
At every possible moment — that is, whenever the hygienist removed her instruments from his mouth — Fergus was asking about the Phoenicians: How did the Persians conquer the Phoenicians? What were the major Phoenician trade routes? Did the Phoenicians use iron? What did their money look like?
And on it went. I’ll admit I wasn’t really paying attention. My mind was elsewhere, thinking about the things one thinks about — the next deadline, an upcoming meeting, a report to write — all the passing trivia that can fill the days. But Fergus was still firing questions:
“Dad, can you read Phoenician?”
“No, Fergus.”
“I want to. I want to learn it.”
“That’s nice.”
“I want to know what they said.”
“Yeah.”
“Why did they disappear?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you think they will come back?”
“Yeah, maybe. No. I don’t know.”
He paused. Then:
“Dad, can I ask a question?”
“Sure.”
“Do you think I was born to revive Phoenician culture?”
Those were his exact words. I laughed, jolted out of my reveries. The hygienist looked up. What did he say?
He was serious. “Do you think I was?”
I had to think about it for a few seconds.
“I don’t know, Fergus,” I faltered. “I suppose — I suppose it’s as good a reason for anyone to be born.”
Then we were quiet: Fergus, the hygienist and me. The hygienist went on with her work.
Many years later, I still think about this. I never come up with a lesson or a moral. And Fergus has long forgotten his passion for the Phoenicians.
But I guess we are still at it — Fergus, me, others — trying to figure out who we are, why we were born, where we belong. I keep working at it, as does Fergus. Maybe we never find it. Or maybe we discover it over time, year by year, day by day, hour by hour. Maybe it’s something new and strange, like reviving Phoenician culture, or maybe it’s familiar, something we’ve known all along, just as I know now, and have known since the moment of his birth, that I was born to be the father of Fergus.
John Duffy is William T. and Helen Kuhn Carey College Professor of Modern Communication in the Department of English and director of the Inspired Leadership Initiative at Notre Dame.