Sid
changed my life. I met Sid during my first year at Hopkins. I took his Human: Being and Becoming course in the
fall and I was hooked; I already knew I’d be an anthropology major, but I didn’t
know I would find someone as amazing as Sidney Mintz. I had a work study job
cold calling potential donors for the development office that I disliked more
each day, so I asked Sid if I could work for him. If you know Sid from his time
at JHU, I hope you had the pleasure to meet and work with Marge Collignon,
Sid’s assistant. Marge was one of the finest people I have ever met and a far
more capable source for help than I was or will most likely ever be. For some reason,
Sid hired me to help him and Marge, and I am forever grateful to them both for
their kindness, friendship, humor and patience.
In
big and small ways, Sid showed me what it is to be truly engaged, to own and
use your intellect for more than your own benefit, and to savor every
experience (usually with a wonderful laugh). At the risk of running longer than
space permits, I’d like to share two things that Sid said to me. To provide
some context for the first statement, I was working for Sid over the summer and
I was researching the history of slavery in Brazil for an independent study with
Sid at the same time. Sid had given me five books to read and analyze in five
page paper. This paper was followed by ten books which required a ten page
analysis; and, finally, fifteen books and, of course, a fifteen page
summary on all that I could surmise from these texts. I was 19 years old and it
was a very hot and humid Baltimore summer living without air conditioning. One afternoon,
I ran into Roger, a friend who played in a rival band on campus, and he was
visibly upset. He explained that he was overwhelmed by the work he had to do
for his independent study: he was reading three books and struggling to write a
ten page paper based on the texts. I asked Roger who was in charge of his
independent study and he said “Sid Mintz”. I was 19;
I was less rational and far more confident in my righteousness than I had
reason to be; I was as angrier than I had reason to be. So I went to see
Sid. And, in my teenage rage at the injustice of my workload compared to that
of a peer, I expressed my disbelief and frustration to my boss and my professor
with neither tact nor diplomacy: “What
the f*ck?! Why are you making me work so hard for the same thing as everybody
else?” Sid smiled and said, “I wouldn’t ask you to do anything I didn’t
think you weren’t capable of doing.” This one sentence hit me with the
force of a blow and, in the moment as well as in hindsight, it became one of
the defining moments of my life. Sidney Mintz, who I knew to be smarter than
any of the most intelligent people I had ever met, thought that I had the
potential to be smarter, to be more than my bravado and imagination could
conjure. From that point on, if Sid asked me to walk through fire, I would have
done it. And if he asked today, I still would.
The
second great thing Sid said to me was a question he repeated many, many times
every time we met or spoke; long after I spent a frustrating year
studying racism against Asians in São Paulo, graduated, left my PhD program,
changed careers, married, and started a family. The first time he asked this
question I was 20 and in the midst of a life history project based on a series
of interviews with four Brazilian illegal aliens in a tiny apartment above the
restaurant where they worked. My Portuguese was barely up to the task and
everyone talked at once making transcribing a nightmare. I rode three buses to
Dunbar where the Brazilians worked and on my third visit I arrived to find they
had all moved out in the night scared that INS might be coming at any moment. I
was crushed and I went to Sid to tell him that I could not complete the project.
Sid listened with a widening grin as I explained how none of this was within my
control; he paused, looked me in the eye and asked “So what are you going to do next?”
This question helped me see that nothing had ended;
it had merely changed and I should adapt and move forward. It is the greatest
question a teacher can ask a student. It is the opportunity to learn from one’s
own mistakes; to fail without being trapped in failure to leap and leap
again.
In
the fifteen years I have been teaching photography, it is the leitmotif that
ties each moment, each student, each failure, and every success to the larger
world we create and share as people.
Sid
did not create the concepts behind this statement or this question;
he did not claim any ownership of either nor did he ever suggest to me that his
own path had been without such struggles. What made Sid so great in my eyes and
heart is the simple way he shared these truly profound things with me. He made
it seem effortless and natural; he made it all seem both purposeful
and hopeful in ways that I can never express. While they may have held
different meaning to him, these moments are gifts for which I am forever
grateful. I know that I am truly fortunate to have known Sid and I thank you
for letting me share my gratitude.
