The summer before my first year at ConVal High School, I received an odd homework assignment. To prepare for my Honors English class, I was tasked with reading the “Iliad,” and then making a life-sized replica of Achilles’ famous shield.
As July gave way to August, I pored over the pages of the “Iliad.” I covered a round sled with papier-maché, then painted individual scenes of Grecian goddesses, vineyards, battles. On my first day of high school, I set off through ConVal’s hallways, my English classmates easily identifiable because they too carried shields. What dangers awaited? Luckily nothing that actually involved a shield.
What we found was a class with Mr. Tim Clark and Ms. Elizabeth Cochran (now Goodhue). The theme of our studies, we were told, would be “the journey to becoming human.” This class was not just about memorizing what happened in books, it was about using fiction and poetry to better understand ourselves.
Admittedly, this was a tall order for first-year high school students. What did the “Iliad” have to do with getting our lockers open? Or finding someone to sit with in the cafeteria? Nevertheless, as months went by, I couldn’t help but appreciate my English teachers’ conspicuous love for literature. They cared about how sentences worked, about how the right word could make an image spring off the page. One day, during a discussion of poetry versus prose, I remember Mr. Clark spontaneously recited a Howard Nemerov poem from memory: (“Sparrows were feeding in a freezing drizzle / That while you watched turned to pieces of snow / Riding a gradient invisible / From silver aslant to random, white, and slow…”).
The way Mr. Clark cared about writing made it feel like it was OK for me to care about it too. And that – to quote another poet – has made all the difference.
In 2016, I published my first book, a collection of short stories called “Of This New World.” I was lucky enough to give a reading at the Toadstool Bookshop in Peterborough, and to have Mr. Clark in attendance, along with other teachers, family and friends. At the end of my reading, Mr. Clark pulled me aside and said that he had a question for me, one that he asked many of his former students when their paths crossed after graduation.
“The question is,” he said, spreading his palms wide, “What surprised you?”
I began to respond, but Mr. Clark stopped me. “Think about it,” he said. “You can write me a letter when you know.”
I agreed. Though I’d thought of an answer immediately, I figured that maybe I’d change my mind after thinking about it more.
Years passed. My answer didn’t change, but I decided I wanted to sell my second book, my first novel, before writing to Mr. Clark. Then I’d have some good news to share, along with my answer.
The trouble was, it took a long time to get that second book right. The good news I wanted to share with Mr. Clark stayed out of reach. And then, when I finally did sell my novel, “Eleutheria,” I again delayed writing the letter. There was editing to do, after all, as well as my own teaching. Maybe, I thought, I’ll send the letter when the book comes out.
I wish now I had not waited.
I heard about Mr. Clark’s passing while visiting my parents in Peterborough. The news hit hard. I had missed the chance to tell Mr. Clark about my second book, but more importantly, to respond to his question—the answer to which I’d been holding onto for years.
If I could, I would go back in time and mail that letter. Since I can’t, I am going to share my answer here. I’d like to think that, since Mr. Clark was a frequent contributor to this paper, this means something. I’d like to count this as a letter sent late, but not never.
What surprised me?
After graduating from ConVal, I was surprised to discover that the lessons in those stories we read – in books like the “Iliad” – were real. That is what Mr. Clark and others had been saying all along, but it took going out into the world myself to fully believe it. Trials of love and loss, safety and adventure, family and honor might look a little different in ancient Troy than in modern America, but there were underlying human experiences that remained powerfully relevant.
Literature, I came to realize, really could help us better understand ourselves. Storytelling could be a source of comfort, of commiseration, of illumination, especially during challenging times.
As the author of two books, and as a professor of creative writing, my whole life has been built around this belief: that literature can speak across centuries, bridging time and space in our ongoing journey to becoming human. This is a life I am grateful to have, and the belief is one I feel fortunate to share with my own students. That’s something I would have said in the letter, as well.
And lastly, to Mr. Clark – and to all the life-changing teachers out there – thank you.
Allegra Hyde is the author of “Of This New World” and “Eleutheria,” and an assistant professor of creative writing at Oberlin College & Conservatory.