In the fall of 1993 I began my second year of graduate school in the Johns Hopkins history department on an anxious note. Like a couple of my fellow students, I had had to hold my first-year seminar paper presentation, usually held in March or April, over to the autumn, and like them I had seen our friends go through this notorious rite of passage, in which a student’s pre-circulated paper was carefully read, thoroughly analyzed, and, in some cases, completely eviscerated before the assembled members of the department. Although I had worked hard on my paper over much of the previous year, I was aware that it still lacked real focus, and I felt far from confident about responding to questions posed by everyone from newly arrived first-year grad students to very senior faculty members.
My fears were confirmed when the first three or four questions were challenging ones from senior scholars known for their intellectual toughness. Seeing that I was having a difficult time, a friend kindly followed up with a very easy question so that I could catch my breath, and as I finished my response the door of the seminar room opened to admit a latecomer, Sidney Mintz, whom I already greatly liked and respected but whom I did not know very well. As the room was quite full, Sid sat down in one of the few unoccupied chairs, directly next to me.
Almost as soon as Sid arrived, the seminar’s tone altered. I still faced (deservedly) rigorous questions, but it seemed as if some of the more combative attendees were revising their opinion of me and my work. Sid’s presence did not transform a mediocre paper into a great one, but it gave me a silent vote of confidence that, though this might not be my finest hour, I was part of the world of scholarship, and should not be discouraged by either a subpar piece of work or a tough audience. As the seemingly endless hour came to its end, and my friends debated where we should go for much-needed beer, Sid patted my hand, said that he had enjoyed the paper, and quietly slipped out the door. A few days later, an anthropology grad student acquaintance mentioned to me that he had heard that Sid had attended my seminar; when I responded that that was because I had asked that the history department send him a copy of the paper and let him know the time and date, the acquaintance explained that Sid was invited to all sorts of events, far more than he had time to go to, and that he had to be very selective about which to attend—in other words, that I should feel honored. And I did.
That afternoon was the beginning of a relationship on which I drew for personal and intellectual sustenance over more than twenty years. Although I served him burned cookies, temporarily lost his beloved cat Marcello, and asked him for far too many letters of reference (sometimes at the last minute), Sid remained a constant source of support, and a reminder of what I hoped to be as both a scholar and a person.
Before I was a Caribbeanist, I tried to be a medievalist. This ambition was stymied due to my apparent inability to master Latin, but after almost thirty years I still vividly recall a lot of what I learned about medieval literature, and particularly Beowulf, which I spent an oddly pleasurable six weeks reading and analysing word for word in an undergraduate seminar. Monsters and their mothers notwithstanding, what stuck with me most from that text was the concept of sapientia et fortitudo, wisdom and courage, as the ideal of human behaviour. I doubt that Sid hoped to put on armor, take up a sword, and battle monstrous creatures from the marshes, but to me, his life epitomized both of these qualities. I am proud to have known him, and will always miss him.
