Dear Siobhan,
It has now been two months and eight days since you died. That’s about nine weeks of new music releases that I haven’t been able to text you about, and we are several emails from our Provost in, too.

We knew you were dying, so your death was not a surprise. But also, we knew you were dying, so your death hurt even before it came. I haven’t been able to talk about it, really, because talking about it still makes me cry.

One reason your loss hurt me so much is because in my 27 year sojourn through the academy, I have had very few protectors. I had almost no mentors that I felt comfortable calling when I was at my rawest and most afraid. But you were an exception. You would listen on the phone while I cried, calm me down, and get me talking solutions. You always, always offered to step in, even when it wasn’t your job, even when it wasn’t your department.

When I was considering coming to the University of New Hampshire, you were the person in charge at Women’s and Gender Studies. You were so easy to talk to and so open with me that I felt safe. You were often actively thinking about how to support the new Black women faculty, how to provide resources so that we could build community and get our scholarship done. In hindsight, having seen some things, I can’t believe you kept your wicked sense of humor and amazing laugh through everything that you were managing, including shielding us from a lot of bullshit.

You took on the additional burden of sitting on my tenure committee as a non-voting member, offering advice to the physicists about how to interpret and weight the impact of my Black feminist scholarship.

Which is to say, you cared for me, you protected me, you helped steward me, and you helped open the door so that it was easier for someone like me to walk through.

You were also my friend. I loved talking punk music with you. And I am grateful that during your final weeks, you made time to go out and have cake with me. I am grateful that now I associate cake with your memory — with your brilliance, your big heart, your drive to make the world better than it is, and your belief that scholars like me deserve a fighting chance. We need more people like you, and now we have one fewer. What a loss for the whole world.

I am glad I got to give you a copy of The Edge of Space-Time; the book wouldn’t exist without your advocacy and support. I dedicated that book in part to Karsten Pohl. Along with Karsten, you made sure that I have had many of the academic opportunities I once dreamed of. And now that you’re both gone, I kind of hope there’s a heaven where you’re out together drinking a beer, playing in a band, and making good trouble.

Thank you, and I miss you.

Chanda

My new book, The Edge of Space-Time: Particles, Poetry, and the Cosmic Dream Boogie, a finalist for the New England Book Award, is available in North America, UK, and Europe wherever you get your books. I encourage you to shop your local indie, use Bookshop for ebooks, and Libro for audiobooks. There are signed copies of the hardcover at Water Street Books.