Portal de Periódicos da CAPES

What Would Nick T. Do? Lessons from a Mentor

2014; Wayne State University Press; Volume: 10; Issue: 1 Linguagem: Inglês

10.13110/storselfsoci.10.1.0059

1932-0280

Jillian A Tullis, Stacy Holman Jones,

Jewish Identity and Society

What is a teacher? I'll tell you: it isn't someone who teaches something, but someone who inspires the student to give of her best in order to discover what she already knows.-Paulo Coelho, The Witch of PortobelloOctober 7, 2012Nick and I ( Jillian) are sitting across from each other at one of my favorite Mexican restaurants in my hometown, Sacramento, California (United States). I'm enjoying a margarita and some chips and salsa as Nick talks to me about what he's been up to lately, mostly producing music. While he talks, I'm flabbergasted that he's still doing this music thing. I thought Nick and his alter ego, Gory Bateson, and the mythic band The Ethnogs would have run its course by now, but no such luck. Nevertheless, since leaving California seven years these are the moments I relish when I'm here. It's October and I'm sitting outside with one of my favorite people enjoying Mexican food and libations. But in my memory, some of the details of our visit are fuzzy and fading.I can't remember if Nick had a blue margarita or a cerveza during this visit; all of our trips to Ernesto's have merged in my mind. I try to remind myself this detail isn't important, but because it was the final time I made this particular pilgrimage with Nick, all of the tiny details matter. Nick's eyes are smiling, but he looks a bit tired. Before meeting me he was working a cancer charity event at the Torch Club, a popular blues bar. Since his wife Leah died in 2004, people have called upon Nick when their loved ones are diagnosed with or die from cancer. I remember thinking to myself that we should probably keep this visit short.As my carnitas arrive, Nick begins telling me about the album he produced with his dad. And I'm stunned. Nick and his father bickered. A lot. They bickered about things like taking out the trash and saying please when asking to pass the salt. Nick talked openly about his relationship with his dad in classes and even wrote some about parts of their relationship in his book, In Search of Naunny's Grave, so I'm not revealing any family secrets here. So recording an album with his father is significant, I thought, as I sat there listening to Nick talk about being in the studio with his dad. Given that they were able to collaborate on something with minimal conflict and that both Nick and his dad were happy with the outcome was amazing. Nick even hired a publicist to promote the album.As I listened I remember having this sensation, this thought, that this was a moment of reconciliation and closure that usually happens before someone- someone old-dies. I was thankful that Nick had this experience with his father. It would make grieving a little easier.November 1, 2012I'm sitting at my favorite coffee shop and I'm supposed to be working, but between checking e-mails and grading papers or doing some other professorial-like thing, I log onto Facebook to see what's going on in the worlds of friends and colleagues. I immediately notice a post in my timeline from Bob Krizek, one of Nick's good friends and a founding member of The Ethnogs.Nick is dead.Bob's post was much longer than these three words. I don't even know if those words were used in the announcement, but that was the message I received. I read the status update again. This has to be some kind of joke. A stunt designed to draw attention to Nick's alter ego and the band: Gory Bateson lives and Nick Trujillo dies. My heart wants this to be an awful joke, but my mind tells me to stop kidding myself, not even Bob and Nick would kid about something like this. I tell my tablemate, a colleague from the English Department, that a mentor/ friend of mine has died.I just saw him a few weeks ago, I say.I'm sorry, he replies.I pack up my laptop as fast as I can because I feel the tears pooling up in my eyes and I don't want anyone to see me cry. As I step into the street on the way to the safety of my car, I simultaneously dial my mom. …