David made things difficult for me.

He made it difficult to not laugh at wholly inappropriate times with his wicked smirks and comments.

He made it difficult to doubt myself, my “M.O.” nearly everyday since childhood.

He made it difficult to find places to eat together (No mango? No avocado? Nothing spicy? C’mon, man!).

He made it difficult to remember which name to use. (Ack, should I say Dr. Nieves, or Professor Nieves, or Angel, or David? Whatever. When in doubt, just use El Jefe)

And, now, he is continuing to make things difficult for me.

Difficult to share memories without a litany of profanity and difficult to not laugh til my side aches when sharing stories with those who knew him for decades before I came on the scene.

But, mostly, it is difficult to think about charting a course forward personally or professionally without him. 

Freshly arrived on the West Coast and just beginning his San Diego era, I met El Jefe and Richard at a History Department event on San Diego State University’s campus. Warm, charming, and affable as ever, he said “Hey! How are you?” with a quick wave and genuine smile; “I’m Dr. Angel David Nieves and this is my chauffeur, I mean husband, Richard.” Instantly, I felt comfortable with their big laughs and overall human-ness. When he opptortunity to take a class with Dr. Nieves (as I solely knew him as then) arose, I jumped on it. Not only did I want to learn from him because I liked him so much, I also looked forward to the opportunity to look at history with the guidance of a learning from a historian whose last name would not have appeared on the Mayflower.  

This is when he began making things difficult for me. 

He complimented my writing, suggested books that he thought I’d enjoy (I did enjoy them), and chatted with me about life as I walked with him to office hours after class. Eventually during one of these walks he broached the topic of becoming his research assistant on a “little” project called Apartheid Heritage(s). I earned decent grades and good comments for teachers before, but this was something entirely different. Where others who attained his success ask students to work for them, he asked me to work with him. And, in typical El Jefe fashion, it was about much more than just the project deliverables or work. I came to realize his interest in me came from a place of care and desire to guide my education and scaffolding my confidence in academia (and, what I later admitted to him, my confidence in life). 

During project meetings he asked my thoughts and really listened to what I had to say, even if only to use them as meaningful teachable moments. Like any meeting with El Jefe, it always ran a little long because of the jokes sprinkled in, the pauses to watch an irreverent (but relevant) video on YouTube, and the sidebars we took to just talk about life. I began to open up, to talk about why I decided to pursue a degree later than a “traditional” student, what it meant to be a first-gen student, and the complexities of identity and adoption. This was profoundly difficult, but I trusted him. And I’m thankful I did.

Project meetings, walks on campus, hilarious conversations about life experiences, and meals of hot dogs and “hard shell” tacos at Casa de Nieves-Foote ensued. All the while he continued to see me, to support me, and to give me permission to be….me. This was difficult and uncomfortable at times. I told him as much and he said he understood, that he could relate. I knew he could. I trusted him.

Just as the difficulty of being vulnerable and building a friendship with him wore off, another difficult situation arose- leaving him.

Walking with him after class, I said I needed to talk. It was late spring in Southern California and in the waning sunlight the shadows stretched long behind us. In anticipation of what I was about to stay, I wanted time to stretch out just as long.

“Dr. Nieves, I am so grateful for you, but I’m not sure academia and PhD is right for me right now, I need a job, I’m going to apply to library programs,” I said tearfully, not even meeting his eyes. He feigned anger to cut the mood and get me to laugh before saying, “Oh honey, I understand, and that makes sense, it is important to have options, I support you.” Then, he popped open his laptop and instantly launched into “You should apply to this school,” “I know so-and-so here, they’d be great to work with,” “Send me your application essays as you draft them.” Without even lifting his eyes from his screen as he typed away with determination, he said “and just so you know, I’m not letting you away from me or Apartheid Heritage(s) that easily, you’ll still work with me, that is if you want to.” 

Of course I wanted to.

The next year we hugged and said “see you soon” on a blazing San Diego day. I departed for North Carolina while he and Richard left for Boston, but his support and advice only grew nearer and dearer to my heart. After every online project meeting we’d stay on to discuss the really important stuff (chisme) and the other stuff (my goals and life post MSLS). During these rap sessions, Richard popped his head into frame to say hello and catch up, though I could always hear his joyful laughter and commentary in the background.

“You know, kiddo,” Richard said one day, “I think you should do a PhD.” David (as I’d been given the green-light to call him), pursed his lips and looked into the camera smugly with a “you-know-that’s-right” look on his face. After much (much) conversation with my tios, I decided to apply.

When I received my acceptance to Northeastern University, I could practically feel the warmth of Richard’s beaming smile and David’s confidence in me through the screen. “Kiddo, this is a reason to celebrate!,” Richard told me. We three began to plot this next chapter of life. Plans were made to go to P-Town, to explore New England, to have dinners at the Boston location of Casa de Nieves-Foote, and just generally enjoy being in the same city again. As a thank you token, I sent my tios a bottle of La Gritona tequila (my poison of choice) with the explicit instructions that we were to share a drink when I started the program but then finish the bottle when I graduated, just as David had done with his mentor and advisor upon his graduation.

It really felt like golden times ahead.

Then David found Richard passed out in the park because of, as he and all those near and dear to him would soon learn, aggressive brain cancer.

Months of hope, sadness, and team effort to support David’s care of Richard passed.

When Richard transitioned to be with the ancestors, David now became the center of this network of care. 

Months of hope, sadness, and team effort to support David followed. 

In a completely fabricated time-frame I created for myself, I believed that if the collective “we” could get him through the one-year anniversary of losing his beloved husband Richard, then he would be OK. The trip to Victoria, shopping for a “leather daddy” goth outfit for the Depeche Mode concert, and his excitement about me joining him as his TA in South Africa during summer 2024 made me believe this more and more. He would be OK. We would be OK. Things were going to be OK.

Then that message arrived. 

David is in the hospital.

Much like the Looney Tunes cartoons that Richard had enjoyed so much, I became the running Coyote. That message made me look down only to realize I was running on air, that the ground was not underneath me.

David grounded me. And with that message the ground seemed to fall away.

At Lahey, I held his hand and smoothed his curls, chuckling with him that we needed to go get our nails done again because the gray he got for Depeche Mode was growing out and I simply could not be seen with him looking like such a mess. He laughed, what a glimmer of hope.

Then things got more serious. Through tearful eyes he apologized to me. He said he was sorry he didn’t take care of himself, that he wasn’t a better friend and mentor. I lovingly let him know the preposterousness of those words, that our friendship meant through thick or thin, through joy and pain. I told him he made my life so much brighter. Then he said he was worried that he steered me wrong because he didn’t want my life to be consumed and beholden to academia or the institution like his, that he wanted better for me. I had to bite my lip from crying.

Was it the day after his death? 

Or two days? 

Or a week later? 

Who knows. Immense grief and the fog of nauseating heartache melted my sense of time. 

Shortly after his death, myself and his circle of chingonas began assisting with packing his apartment. I couldn’t see straight, I simply went through the motions.

I found La Gritona with the green gift bow still on it. The unrealized joy, hopes, dreams, and plans for the future were sealed in that bottle. Years of the friendship, professional partnerships, and joint projects that I thought lay ahead of us sloshed around. Thinking about it gave me a worse hangover than if I had downed half of it by myself.

This, truly, was the most difficult thing.

I miss El Jefe dearly. Multiple times a day I grab my phone to send him a picture of a flyer for a restaurant called “Savage Weiner,” or a screenshot of a New York Times crossword clue that describes the Boers as “South African settlers,” or to ask a question. Multiple times a day I remember that we all must forge a path forward ahead without him.

Angel David Nieves. He was so much more than a professor, a historian, or a curator of fine notebooks. He had the immense talent of building relationships, giving people permission to be themselves, and bringing people together. I may not have him any more, but I have all that he poured into me and everyone who was fortunate enough to be in his orbit, even if for a little bit (and whether they realized or appreciated their great luck or not). That, and the encouragement of his fantastic chingonas, means that a meaningful path forward that uplifts the principles that I so admired in him can and will continue.

Te amo, El Jefe. Te amo, Tio Richard.