I came to know David as a singularly skilled teacher and mentor with a fathomless knowledge of history. He was also a remarkably imaginative and divergent thinker who also always managed to bring his ideas to a re-convergence, but only after they had meandered far afield and gathered lots of pollen. Examples abound. Here are some things I remember.

He wrote a novel I had the pleasure of reading–The Shiva Battery–that premised the invention of a battery cell that never lost its charge: a sort of 21st century reincarnation of a 17th century perpetual motion machine. The mysterious inventor of the battery lived somewhere in remote, mountainous northern India and his altogether too terse press release explaining how the battery worked—indeed it did work!–involved a cryptic interplay of Hindu cosmology and particle physics. It was a fascinating book. It took the reader from behind closed doors at Fox newsroom headquarters—they weren’t at all happy about what this meant for BP and Exxon Mobil—to the cities and hinterlands of the Indian subcontinent, where the protagonist–an intrepid US journalist–quested in hope of interviewing the reclusive inventor and shedding more light on the inner-workings of this remarkable new technology. As you can see, it’s a story that goes in all manner of directions, and all over the globe in the process. And doesn’t it sound fascinating? That was David.

I had the great fortune to TA for a course he taught in Integrative Social Sciences. This was a history of social science in the 20th century US that also combined–improbably but incredibly effectively–a history of contemporary social movements and a history of American music. If there was anyone equipped to teach such a course, it was David. I learned a tremendous amount about history and music from this class, and so did the undergrads. The students adored him.

I remember one lecture, David was set on showing that music, like anything else, has a history. It might sound like it had descended from the Spheres, but in fact its whole relational system of tones and tempos is built. People made it. There was a piano in the lecture hall. David played a major scale, and explained there was a long and gradual process of consensus that led to the acceptance of the intervals that we now know as this timeless scale. Then he played—to himself, noodling around–the major scale of chords. This became an impromptu version of Bill Withers’ “Lean on Me” (which is built on this scale of chords). The students loved it—lots started clapping on the beat, a few started singing.

There was another lecture he gave on George Lakoff’s ‘cognitive framing’ and the power of negative presences (i.e. “don’t think of an elephant!”). He stressed how this feature of thought and language could work as a powerful rhetorical tool in the hands of politicians and policy makers. ‘How can you not think of an elephant, once I’ve told you not to?’ David said to the class. We all tried very hard not to. This then led him to muse extemporaneously on elephants themselves—their remarkable memory, their gentleness, their peregrinations, their lovably ambling disheveled-ness as they made their way together, wherever they were going. When I think of David now, I do not think of an elephant.

David pointed me in all sorts of different directions that ended up being invaluable to my research. But these were directions I simply could not have known would be useful at the outset. This is the hindsight of history. Yet, it was a hindsight that David–over his long experience studying history–had cultivated as a kind of foresight. He knew I’d have to meander. I’d stop by his office, lost in the leaves of my project, and in a rush to get out of the thicket. He’d slow me down. ‘Sit down, sit down,’ he’d say. And I’d plop into the arm chair he kept for visitors in the corner—it was very hard to get out of once you were in it—and I’d recount what little trails I had come across recently in my reading and I’d ask him where he thought they led.

My remembrance begins at the Michigan State University Department of History’s recruitment event for potential graduate students in 2012, at which I was a prospective student. When I met Dr. Bailey, it was the first face-to-face meeting I had with an MSU professor.

We introduced ourselves and I nervously dove into explaining what I thought I wanted to study: music history. After listening intently for a bit, Dr. Bailey gently redirected my ramblings with the question,
“How catholic is your taste in music?” he asked with a genuine inquisitiveness.
I repeated the question aloud, giving myself much needed time to remember that ‘catholic’ did not mean ‘religious’ when used in this context, before responding,
“Well I like rock, blues, and hip hop…and funk.”
“You know, funk music is pure sex,” Dr. Bailey interjected.
Confused at first, I sat back and listened intently to Dr. Bailey embark on a fascinating mini-lecture about the politics of the body of Funkadelic. We talked for another twenty minutes about music and the meeting ended with me feeling fully confident I chose the right field of study.

That conversation in Dr. Bailey’s yellowing, dusty, cramped-with-books office at Morrill Hall helped convince me to attend MSU. His vast intellect, kindness, and affinity for all things esoteric were special. As was his deep love of learning, which was very obvious to anyone who interacted with him.
Near the end of the meeting, I told him I did not have funding to attend MSU and I wondered if it was a bad idea to use student loans. His response was “eh” while shaking his head and gesturing his hand dismissively, indicating his belief that no amount of money could match the value of a good education. I joined MSU’s Department of History a few months later.

I had the good fortune to serve as Dr. Bailey’s teaching assistant last summer for his online class, History of Sport in America. I was amazed when he began the class with a discussion on black jockeys racing horses professionally while enslaved in the Antebellum South. I was completely unfamiliar with this topic and slightly puzzled as to why Dr. Bailey seemed so enthused about horse racing. But when I graded the students’ response papers on the topic, I realized that his brief lecture on horse racing helped students grasp the complexities of slavery in ways that many teachers can only dream of. Few approached teaching the way Dr. Bailey did. He had a way of speaking to students about extremely complicated ideas in ways they could understand without a hint of condescension. His example as not just a teacher and scholar, but as a person, reminds me to always seek out new knowledge with curiosity and humility.

He will be greatly missed.

It is with tremendous sadness that I receive the news of Dr. David Bailey’s passing and I send my deepest condolences to his family and loved ones. I knew Dr. Bailey as a MSU undergraduate student and what always struck me most about him was the variety and consistency of his care. He deeply and authentically cared about the world and its future, and provided unwavering support for students, as individuals as much as the next generation of critical thinkers and problem solvers. Dr. Bailey repeatedly invested extraordinary time and energy into my own academic development, and I have watched enough of his interaction with other students to know that I am only one among many who received such attention.

My closest experience with Dr. Bailey was in the process of applying for a Marshall Scholarship for graduate study in London. He first proposed that I apply and, despite my reluctance, convinced me that the opportunity was worthwhile and within reach. He spearheaded the organization of the extensive application, guiding me though writing essays, garnering letters of recommendation, and even scheduled a mock interview to help me prepare. Dr. Bailey advised with the experience of years aiding students in a similar vein, seeing much more in us and our future than we saw ourselves. Through his foresight and support, I received the scholarship and consequently experienced among my most profound years of scholarly and personal growth. It is with great sorrow that I say goodbye to Dr. Bailey but hope that his memory and example may continue to inspire.

I didn’t realize what was happening at the time, but in his playful and quiet way Professor Bailey was one of a handful of instructors who nudged me to explore how my spiritual life, my feelings about social justice, and my education could all challenge and inform each other.

We went to the same church while I was at MSU, but I always attended a different service. One night we bumped into each other at an anti-war demonstration along Grand River avenue. He looked at me and said “You’re an Episcopalian right?” to which I nodded yes.

Prof. Bailey then began to loudly sing the Taize’ setting of “Dona Nobis Pacem” (roughly “God give us your peace”) and, knowing that we sung it a lot at All Saints he stared at me, singing and smiling, until I started to sing along. Before long there were a few dozen of us, probably representing a variety of beliefs about God, carrying our signs and singing together a prayer for peace.

I often meant to reach out to him and thank him for the part he has played in my life. I guess he knows now. Rest in peace sir, and may light perpetual shine upon you.

Written on 7 November, just before David passed away.

Hi David, I have no idea what to write, I went for wine-fueled, over emotive stream of consciousness, like a shit William Burroughs’, who was already shit.

I am sorry that I cannot be there beside you. And I don¹t know how to sum up how much I love you in a few lines of an email. Since I arrived at MSU in 2005, you were like a father to me …. except much smarter and funnier. I remember hanging out for long hours with you at dive bars, chatting about history, religion, department gossip, Detroit politics, Mexican mother in laws and much more. I remember turning up in your ridiculously overburdened office to ask for a book or a thought or an insight on pretty much any topic in philosophy, religion, or world history (amazing the books didn’t get you like that heavy handed analogy in that EM Forster book). I should have dedicated my second book to you (although you deserve much much better!) because it was you that made me attempt to understand the warm comfort of religion and ritual – the heart in a heartless world.

I remember laughing uproariously over the the strange, selfish dynamics of department politics. I remember you were the person that actually made staff meetings worth turning up to, gently turning the room to your own will.

But most of all, I remember your kindness. I don’t think British people really recognize kindness as a virtue, especially those that go to weird public schools. Maybe Americans don’t either, but being Canadian I presume, you did. Looking back on my time at MSU, I realize that I could not have survived it (let alone enjoyed it) without you. During my first few years, you directed me through what was for me a mess of incomprehensible acronyms, new duties, and strange accents. When we became closer, you were always willing to listen to my petty worries and silly heartaches. You taught me to love teaching and love the students I taught. And when the real darkness came, you were always willing to offer your time, your advice, and your brilliant, somewhat askance, anecdotes. When my kids came along, you were always there with a bottle of wine and a ridiculously ornate cake or magnificent pie or ham. And, when your own kids came back, you always showed me how a real dad should behave. Finally, and this may seem odd coming from somebody with little to no dignity, but you taught me the value of dignity, an ability to remain true to yourself, your beliefs whatever was thrown at you. Like pornography, I now know it when I see it.

I can’t express how grateful I am to you. You were a mentor, a colleague, a friend, and a co-conspirator. You never came down to Mexico, but I always dream of pulling on a few Corona¹s in the zocalo while various Mexicans try to hug you and you looked embarrassed. I wish I was with you now if only to try and hug you and make you look equally embarrassed. For a good part of my life, you were second only to my wife and child, a wonderful, humane, kind, intelligent person that I am totally honored and grateful to have spent time with. I love you and am thinking of you.