Odysseus pretended he was insane in order to try to escape going to Troy to help Menelaus get his wayward wife, Helen, back.  The face that launched a thousand ships. Although I suspect it wasn’t so much about her face.  It never is.

He, Odysseus that is, sowed his fields with salt to demonstrate the depths of his madness.  He stopped short of letting Menelaus’ messengers chuck his infant son, Telemachus, in front of his plow.  “Oh fine,” he sighed, “you got me.”  And off he went. 

Achilles, the mighty warrior, was dressed as a girl by his mother and hidden in the court of King Lycomedes in order to avoid going to fight at Troy.    The lesson, well, there are a few, but two stand out:  1) people do almost anything in times of great stress and 2) the dude who presents himself as the most manly and heroic is probably the most likely to run and hide behind his mom’s skirt or in it in a crisis (note:  Achilles also spent a good chunk of the Trojan war whining in his tent because Agamemnon stole his girlfriend).

After the Trojan War, all these Greeks, these Flowing Haired Achaeans, wended their way home across the ocean.  Those who’d survived the ten year war mostly made it back home.  Agamemnon was met at his doorstep by his wife and her lover and a sharp blade, a big welcome home and thanks for sacrificing our daughter for favorable travel winds when you set off those ten years ago.  That family had issues.  Menelaus and Helen settled back into their household and tried to rebuild their life.  The way Homer tells it, Helen earned back good favor by helping Odysseus pull of the Trojan Horse trick.  She certainly seems remorseful.  Really pretty girls get away with a lot.

Penelope, Odysseus’ wife, meanwhile, is holding down the fort.  Sort of.  Ten years AFTER the Trojan war has ended, her husband still hasn’t returned home.  She’s weaving, she’s making olive oil, she’s fending off suitors, because if you’re rich and you’re the queen, and you’ve got land and you’re good looking, plus you’re not Helen-good-looking, which is the kind of good-looking that brings trouble, which is why Odysseus married you and not Helen in the first place (he was smart enough to recognize early on that Helen was high maintenance and took himself out of the running), your olive oil brings the boys to the yard.

And this holding it all together goes on for 19 years, if you consider the ten years of the war and the nine years of the waiting after the war.  And then in the 20th year, boom.  He’s home.  Except, because you’ve married The Wily Odysseus, he tests you to see if you’ve been loyal.  But you’re no chump, and some people might not see it like this, but you test him right back.  And you make him wait.  You’re not going to rush into his arms after he puts you through that.  If he’s going to make you wait, then he can damn well wait himself, now can’t he.

And after the testing, and then the reunion.  The wonderful reunion.   But then what?  Because it’s been 20 years.  That’s a lifetime.  Certainly Telemachus’ lifetime. Your baby is a man now, in fact.  Everything is different.  You’ve become this entirely different person.  How do you get him to see that you need all this space to be the person that you had to become.  You didn’t ask to become this other person, it happened out of necessity, but here it is.  Here she is.  Here you are. 

Martha Collins wrote Homecoming, a poem I use at the end of the odyssey of teaching the Odyssey to ninth graders.

So you’re home from the wars,

or at least a summer

facsimile of them.

You’re welcome, but

please don’t rush.

There are some things

to be seen.

 

First you’ll notice

these guests.  You’ll call

them suitors, and be

mistaken: they’ve

not cluttered

the hearth or changed

the order of things.

 

You’ll find the bed

in the same quiet place,

neatly spread as before.

But you should know

I’ve grown accustomed

to sleeping in all

its spaces.

 

The sun-colored table

sits in the kitchen, prepared

for the usual

feasts, you’ll think.

But I’m not quite ready

to serve your dinners,

to pour your wines.

 

I’d rather sit by the big

bay window, the one we saved

for special times.

There’s an extra chair,

but please be still,

for it’s here I’ve come

to reflect.

 

Perhaps you’ll resent

the uncommon manner

in which I’ve come

to possess our rooms.

You can’t conceive

of the more extreme measures

I’ve thought of taking.

 

Like pounding stakes

in the floor and stretching

ropes to inform you

this or that is mine,

stamping my name

on favorite walls,

carving initials

 

on window sills,

or merely breathing

autograph spaces

on panes of glass.

But of course

we’re bound

to share, and it’s more

 

than a neat arrangement

of tables and chairs and beds.

And perhaps it’s as

simple as getting familiar,

accepting

the common places again.

 

But please

understand

and try to find

your own space

where you can see beyond

these ceilings and floors

and windows and walls.

 

It shouldn’t be hard:

you have been miles

away, after all,

while I have been making

myself at home.