Some time during middle school, one of my teachers assigned “The Pearl” by John Steinbeck, a novella that takes place along the coast of Baja California. Before that assignment, I thought it was impossible to enjoy school reading. Every book felt long, boring or both.
“The Pearl,” however, clutched me from the beginning. I loved Steinbeck’s description of setting. As a San Diegan, I had heard of the nearby Baja California coast. Reading the prose, I felt like I was there.
The next Steinbeck assignment, given during my freshman year of high school, was “Of Mice and Men,” another novella. As a teenager who had yet to work, the labor theme was somewhat lost on me. Nonetheless, I appreciated the book as a simple story about friends trying to survive and look out for each other. Around the conclusion of my freshman year, my teacher played the movie on VHS.
As high school progressed, we were finally able to choose some of the books for our reports. I requested “The Grapes of Wrath,” and my teacher said yes. Compared to his novellas, Steinbeck’s epic was laborious to digest, and ultimately more rewarding.
Afterward I read “Cannery Row,” which remains one of my favorite books. It was the first book to make me cry. There’s a scene where Mac, after accidentally destroying the interior of his friend’s home, laments the failures of his life. More than 15 years later, this scene still moves me to tears.
None of my college professors assigned Steinbeck, nor did they allow us to choose the books we reported on. Until I graduated from NYU in May, 2013, I had no time for pleasure reading.
Through the rest of the 2010s, I slowly consumed more of Steinbeck’s catalog. Simultaneously I moved from political centrism within the Democratic Party to leftism outside the two-party system. Steinbeck’s labor-focused novels and journalism helped me understand that the conditions of working-class people’s lives were crucial markers of societal health.
One of the goals of the populist/leftist movement is to create societies where essential workers are fairly compensated and treated with respect. In an ideal world, the laborers in Steinbeck’s stories would not be struggling to survive. For all able to work, jobs would be guaranteed. Both the employed and disabled would be able to live comfortably.
In my professional and personal life, I saw parallels between Steinbeck and myself. Like Steinbeck, I worked as a journalist, although I reported on issues that were trivial compared to his war correspondence. Steinbeck’s friendship with marine biologist Ed Ricketts reminded me of my relationship with my childhood best friend, Devin, who does mechanical engineering for an oceanography research institute.
Shortly after my devastating layoff around the end of 2022, I read “The Winter of Our Discontent,” the novel that helped Steinbeck win a Nobel Prize in Literature. I deeply empathized with Ethan, the main character. After his family loses its wealth due to his father’s foolish financial decisions, Ethan works as a grocery store clerk. His wife and children pine for an increase in economic and social status. Ethan sees several shortcuts that involve compromising his strict moral code.
“The Winter of Our Discontent” cemented my opinion that John Steinbeck is far more than a California labor novelist. He is a versatile creative writer, a master of storytelling.
After finishing this acclaimed yet underappreciated book, I promised I would read every one of Steinbeck’s published works before I die. I’m a horribly slow reader, yet every year I get closer to my goal.
Before I retire, I want my catalog of books to cover at least a few of Steinbeck’s themes: the ills of ambition and materialism, class warfare and expedition. I don’t have even a fraction of his talent, but I hope I, too, can be an effective champion of the working class.
Editorial Note: Feature Image Credit to National Portrait Gallery Smithsonian
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