In April, one of my dearest mentors passed away from cancer. We had kept in touch over the years, in fact, he had written a grad school recommendation letter for me in 2019. The last time I was in Austin, I ran into him at the Elisabet Ney Museum on a Sunday morning. My family and I were there to walk the grounds after brunch, and I saw his unmistakable red hair behind a thicket of beautiful Austin landscape. Of course, Oliver would have been on site on a Sunday. I’m so thankful I had the chance to introduce him to my kids. I am struggling to find words to process the grief and gratitude I feel- but my heart and mind are in Austin.
When I met Oliver, I was a floundering junior at UT Austin. I had just finished a summer internship at the Kimbell art museum while working two other part time jobs. I had to move back home for the summer to take the Kimbell opportunity, and while the internship was wonderful- the implications of living at home for a few months left me with actual stomach ulcers. I had been accepted into the Harry Ransom Center’s year-long undergraduate internship program in 2005-2006. I was double majoring in Humanities Honors and Art History, but I had not really found a home for myself in Austin yet.
The Ransom Center internship changed much about my life’s trajectory. Although Oliver was not my program coordinator, I interned in his department first. When I walked into the public programs office on my first day, wide eyed and so excited, Oliver welcomed me warmly and with the enthusiasm that so many people love about him. Of all the people I worked with during my time at the HRC, he was the person to whom I was closest.
Under of his mentorship, I learned to write copy for press releases, and coordinate hospitality for visiting scholars, writers, and artists for evening events. Oliver introduced me to the archives department, and I archived part of the Norman Mailer collection. Then, I actually curated an exhibit on Stella Adler. I enjoyed public programs so much, I became a docent and led school tours through the galleries. I found the “home” that I so desperately needed at that time in my life. And Oliver Franklin, whose love of his community was the wellspring for so much good, taught me to cultivate the virtues of kindness, joy, and enthusiasm. These virtues are the foundation of my teaching and artistic practices today. They are the virtues I struggle to uphold especially through the trauma of sickness and violence in my community.
I’ve been tending my own little garden up in Dallas, reflecting on the relationships I cherish. In a way, I’ve been cultivating my grief: pouring loss, yearning and thanksgiving into the dirt on all these sweet, pastoral evenings. A few lonely fireflies keep watch while I water, prune away yellow leaves, delight at the tender new growth. The highway roars not so far, but there is quiet here under the old oak tree. Time swells in a bubble of earth, and the moments are nearly big enough to contain all my heart needs to say.
