In a couple of weeks I'll attend a high-school reunion at an Italian restaurant in Brooklyn. It's a long drive for some linguine and too many sentences that begin with "Remember when ..." and end with an embarrassment I've tried to forget. This might be a dreadful evening.
The prospect of mentally revisiting high school, however, made me look back at the teachers we had, the books we read. My 11th-grade English teacher had a profound influence on me and is probably one reason I became an English teacher myself. I remember reading "Hamlet" and "The House of the Seven Gables" in his class.
Curiously, while the teacher influenced my life, the books we read for class didn't. Instead, my views and values were shaped by three books that weren't classroom assignments. In fact, after so many years, I don't remember exactly why I read them or who suggested them. What I do know is they changed me.
"The Children of Sanchez," by anthropologist Oscar Lewis, is the story of a Mexican family living in Tepito, a very poor section of Mexico City. Lewis tells the family's story by letting each member have a voice — chapters are "written" from each person's point of view. And those points of view sure are different.
Lewis did more than provide a window into an impoverished Mexican family. By allowing each person in the Sanchez family to describe his or her life, I realized that none of us experience the world in the same way. Our frame of reference borders our experience, shapes our world, modifies what we call reality.
Harry M. Caudill's "Night Comes to the Cumberlands" is about the history, culture, poverty and the coal industry of the Appalachian Mountains, especially eastern Kentucky. I was studying (well, I wasn't studying very hard) to be a Catholic priest in that area when I read the book, so I was sympathetic to its message.
The message was about the destruction of a beautiful environment through strip mining, the brain drain of the Appalachian people to assembly-line jobs in Detroit and a culture of poverty that molds generations. All of that — environmental concerns, the departure of those with knowledge and skills and the impact on those left behind — instructed me about complexity and cemented my skepticism about corporations and the common good.
I ended up teaching in the North Country because I hiked in the Adirondacks. My hiking guru was Colin Fletcher, who wrote "The Man Who Walked Through Time." The "time" of the title is the geology/chronology visible on the walls of the Grand Canyon that Fletcher hiked from end to end. Fletcher writes what he learns — about himself, about hiking, about the Grand Canyon.
Fletcher wrote about the striations on the rocks he walked between and his own limitations; he described his surroundings and himself. He reminded me to pay attention to my own surroundings but realize they won't change my inadequacies.
These three books moved the furniture around in my head and changed my mental world. At the reunion we'll talk about what we learned in high school and from whom. But, probably like most people, I learned a lot from strangers who wrote books I read on my own.
Jerry McGovern, the Press-Republican's coordinator of Newspapers-in-Education, taught in New York state's public schools, and now teaches in the Communication Department of Plattsburgh State. He can be reached at gmcgovern@pressrepublican.com or 565-4126.


