Born: September 6, 1951. Died: February 9, 1996
Dear Barry,
It’s strange writing to you knowing there will be no reply and yet feeling so certain that, somehow, you would understand every word. Thirty years on, you are still present in my thinking, my teaching, my anger at injustice, and my hope that education can be better than it so often is.
I want to thank you properly, and without footnotes, for what you gave me.
You were my lecturer, yes, but far more than that, you were my friend and my compass. You taught me at Warwick University, but the lessons that mattered most never stayed in seminar rooms. You made me see that racism was not a peripheral problem to be managed politely but something rooted deep in structures, habits, silences, and power. You taught me that nothing short of anti-racist education was good enough; that anything else barely touched the sides. That clarity has never left me.
What stays with me most is your warmth. Your intelligence never came with distance or superiority. You made people feel seen, taken seriously and capable of thinking harder than they thought possible. You had that rare gift of making familiar relationships suddenly appear strange, newly visible, and open to change. That, you showed us, was sociology at its best: humane, sharp-eyed, and morally alive.
I remember the small things, too, because they mattered. You asking me, while you were in Australia, to purchase for you that brand-new book exposing Alan Sugar’s damage to your beloved Spurs. You telling me about going to see Pulp Fiction the night before with your beloved Sally. Bumping into you at White Hart Lane with my brother with you buzzing after Spurs beat Man City, Teddy Sheringham rising to meet the moment. Your love for Tottenham was never trivial; it was loyalty, humour, endurance, and hope rolled into one. Somehow, it fitted you perfectly.
I remember the letters after I left Warwick and went into teaching. And I remember, with painful clarity, the letter where you told me you were dying. Even then, there was no self-pity, just honesty, courage and that same generosity of spirit. You faced the truth as you faced ideas: directly, without flinching.
Every year, on February 9, I think of you. Not just of your death, but of your life and what it set in motion. I hope I have helped keep your candle alive by continuing to challenge racism wherever I find it. If I have spoken up when it was easier to stay quiet, it is because you taught me that silence is never neutral. If I have insisted that discussions of race, justice, and education belong in the mainstream and not the margins, it is because you were determined they should never be silenced by political convenience.
You knew and you made others know that good teaching and learning can only exist in an atmosphere of openness, understanding and tolerance of difference. You lived that belief. You embodied it. You were the most tolerant of men, blessed with a marvellous sense of humour that carried others through dark moments and, no doubt, through the lifelong emotional trials of supporting Tottenham Hotspur.
I am grateful for your brilliance, your kindness, your courage, and your friendship. Grateful for Sally, whose love gave you time, and whose strength allowed the world to receive more of your work than it otherwise would have. Grateful for the example you set, which continues to shape how I think, teach, and act.
You left far too soon, Barry. But you did not leave quietly and you did not leave without impact. You are remembered not just in books and journals, but in lives changed, minds sharpened and injustices still being challenged.
Thank you, my friend. You still matter. You always will.
With love, respect, and enduring gratitude,
Jason
