He touched my life in the 11th hour of his career. He should have been the high school teacher I remember from almost 30 years ago, but the fact is, I was never his student-back then.
Oh, I knew who Aldo Mungai was, back when the Beatles first ruled radio. Everybody at Lyons Township High School in La Grange, Ill., knew ”Uncle Al.” And those who sat through a year of English literature in Mr. Mungai`s class gathered more than knowledge. They carried forever profound memories of the man.
My cousin was in his class in 1958. Both my brothers were too-one in 1960 and the other 10 years later. Last September, my son, a senior, brought home a class schedule that read ”English IV-Mungai.”
I said, ”Good God, is he still at LT?”
This phenomenon always astounds adults. With the myopia of youth, students view all teachers-well, there`s no polite way to say it-as old. Mr. Mungai must have been a youthful 30 back in my day, but here was concrete evidence that some things never change. He hadn`t. He had been at Lyons Township for 36 years and was beginning his final year of teaching before retirement.
Dutifully, on a rainy night last autumn, I attended Parent Night and received my first direct exposure to Uncle Al. As if from a pulpit, he lectured us. Thirty or so parents heard about loving kids and trusting kids and having the guts to forbid the bad and cheer the good. Mr. Mungai waved his arms and hollered his beliefs: ”Kids shouldn`t work, shouldn`t have cars. They have only one mission-to learn!”
Through the fall and winter, I used my parental crowbar to eke out a few school stories from my senior son. One good one was about a wild-hair lecture Mr. Mungai had delivered.
Privately, I admired his passionate outspokenness. I didn`t mind this virtual stranger talking to my son, via the entire class, about love, values and integrity. He obviously cared.
In the spring, my son experienced an injury that resulted in surgery and a seven-week convalescence at home. The high school offered a ”homebound”
program, instruction in each subject to be provided by either the classroom teacher or a hired tutor. Each teacher could choose which.
Mr. Mungai rang our doorbell, books under each arm, and my son received his share of undiluted Uncle Al. So as not to intrude, my younger son and I retreated upstairs, but we could still hear his booming voice.
In the process of several visits, Mr. Mungai discerned that I was receptive to his fondness for language. I told him how I found my path to writing in my mid-30s, and how I lamented the late start. He praised my finding the path at all.
In Lyons Township`s 1992 yearbook, which makes appropriate mention of Mr. Mungai`s retirement, he is quoted: ”I would like to be remembered as a person who tried hard to live up to the best that was in him.”
A few weeks ago, as he packed away mementos of almost four decades of teaching, Mr. Mungai came across an English handbook that he considered a good one-published in 1952. He sent it to me via my son.
If I had been his student in high school, would I be a better writer now? It`s pointless to wonder. I am glad to have known him through my son. Now I have Uncle Al stories-and a gift-of my own.
