Timothy McGovern 1965-2006
Tim McGovern was the director of the language program for the
Department of Spanish and Portuguese at UCSB. An expert in
19th-century Spanish literature, he focused on Benito Pérez Galdós
in his dissertation and in one of his first books. Tim was also an
integral part of the intercampus focus group UC Mexicanistas, led
in part by our own renowned professor Sara Poot-Herrera, whose
eulogy to Tim follows.
In addition to the thousands of undergraduate students who
passed through his program, Tim supported and mentored nearly every
graduate student in the department. So many of us who benefited
from his classes, workshops, and advice long to tell how Tim
resolved our titanic problems, helped us continue in school with
emotional and material help in the form of TA-ships, and kept us
focused on our possibilities and talents. Tim’s generosity was
astounding, and the number of people who once found themselves in
his hands and now find themselves out in the world, doing what they
thought they might not be able to do, is vast.
All of us feel Tim’s loss deeply. He will be mourned and sorely
missed, but his teaching will live on in all of us who learned from
him, as we in turn educate the next generation of teachers.
— Ilana Dann Luna and Cheyla Samuelson
Tim,
Siempre estuviste antes que nada, antes que todos.
Llegaste a Santa Bárbara antes de que concluyera la primavera,
aquel fin de cursos de 1998, cuando las clases comenzarían en el
otoño. Y ese verano, mucho antes de Septiembre, trabajaste los
siete días y las siete noches de la semana para que todos
aprendieran una o dos de las lenguas extranjeras que desde mucho
antes hiciste tuyas. ¡Bien sabías que habías de enseñar a quienes
enseñaban y lo siguen y seguirán haciendo!
Hablabas tan rápido que las palabras se adelantaban a las
sílabas y las oraciones atropellaban a las palabras. ¡Qué rápido
entraba en confianza la gente contigo! En la universidad, en la
calle, en todas partes.
Tanto y tan pronto leíste a Galdós, joven galdosiano, que
volviste fantástico al realista de todos los tiempos.
Fuiste lecturer y muy pronto profesor. Con la gran carga del
primero cumpliste también con el cargo del segundo: clases extra,
clases inventadas por ti, clases de requisito, clases en otros
programas; investigaciones y publicaciones como peninsularista y
luego como mexicanista. Fuiste trasatlántico a tu manera e
incursionaste en los ahora llamados queer studies.
En tan pocos años dirigiste tres tesis de doctorado; eras
miembro de otras tesis, y cuántas investigaciones guiaste y cuántos
cursos independientes y otros estudios. Qué bien protegiste y
estimulaste a los estudiantes “no graduados.” ¡Cuánta carta de
recomendación para ellos y para los “graduados.” Cuántas asesorías
anuales para éstos y también durante el año, para ir preparados y
bien trajeados a la búsqueda feroz en el MLA, a donde muchas veces
los acompañaste. Ellos iban y volvían, respondían a las entrevistas
y finalmente se despedían, pero nunca de ti: una llamada, muchas;
una tarjeta, tantas; un correo por segundo.
Cuánto pero cuánto trabajo que de tan bien hecho no se notaba tu
esfuerzo.
Le ganabas al sol por la mañana para cumplir con todo y con
todos; para hacer la tarea cotidiana porque la pesada ya la habías
adelantado, incluyendo en los avances tus ponencias, tus reseñas,
tus correcciones, tus escritos.
Aun así seguías tocando la guitarra, dibujando tus monitos,
oyendo el rock de años anteriores, prendiendo las veladoras de tu
apartamento de King Road en West Hollywood, paseando a Barney,
luego a Casey, conversando con tu mamá, cuidándonos a todos,
creyéndonos todos únicos con tus cuidados.
Hace unas semanas te nos adelantaste. Poco antes acompañaste a
tu madre después de darle dos vueltas al parque a tu perro. Nos
llamaste varias veces. Discretamente, y sin saberlo, ella te dejó
solo y después te encontró sin que hubieras dado molestias a nadie.
Al amanecer nos quedamos esperándote; te nos fuiste al cielo con
todo y botas.
Cuando al fin nos reunamos contigo, cruzarás los brazos y
comprenderás que nosotros seguiremos como siempre estando atrasados
en todo.
Tim, gracias a ti ya no tengo miedo a la muerte.
— Sara Poot-Herrera
Tim,
You were always there before it all, before everyone.
You arrived in Santa Barbara before the close of spring, that
end of quarter in 1998 when classes didn’t start until the fall.
And that summer, long before September, you worked seven days and
seven nights per week so that everyone could learn one or two of
the foreign languages you already knew. You knew that you had to
teach those who taught — and they still teach, and will continue to
do so.
You talked so fast that the words got ahead of the syllables and
your sentences steamrolled the words themselves. How quickly people
trusted you — at the university, on the street, everywhere.
As soon as you read Galdós, young Galdosian, you turned the
great realist of all times into a writer of the fantastic.
You were a lecturer and very quickly became a professor. With
the weight of the former, you shouldered the responsibility of the
latter: extra classes, ones you invented yourself; requirements;
classes in other departments; research and publications as a
Peninsularist and then as a Mexicanist. You were transatlantic in a
way only you could be, and you made incursions into what we now
call queer studies.
In so few years, you directed three doctoral theses, and were a
member on committees for others. And how many research projects did
you guide? And how many independent courses and other studies? How
well you protected and stimulated the undergraduates. How many
letters of recommendation did you write for them, and for the
graduate students? How many yearly workshops for them, and then,
during the year, mock interviews so that they would go prepared and
well dressed to the ferocious MLA job hunt, where you even
accompanied them so many times? They would go and return, respond
to the interviews and finally say goodbye — but never to you. For
you, there were many a phone call, countless cards, an email every
second.
So, so much work that you did so well it seemed almost
effortless. You beat out the sunrise in order to do it all, and for
everybody, to do the daily work because the hard stuff you would
have already finished ahead of schedule, including your conference
papers, your reviews, your corrections, and your articles.
Even so, you kept playing the guitar; drawing your little
characters; listening to classic rock; lighting the candles in your
apartment on King Road in West Hollywood; walking your dog Barney,
then Casey; talking to your mom; taking care of all of us,
believing us all to be unique in your care.
A few weeks ago you got ahead of us. You had just accompanied
your mother twice around the park with your dog. You called us a
couple of times. Discreetly, and without knowing it, she left you
alone and then she found you, without you having caused trouble for
anyone. At sunrise, we were left waiting for you. You left us for
heaven, boots and all.
When we finally see you again, you’ll cross your arms and you’ll
understand that we’ll continue to be, as always, behind in
everything.
Tim, because of you, I’m no longer afraid of death.
— Translated by Ilana Dann Luna
