David Carr. As Seen by One of His Students.

This always happens. When somebody passes away a part of you is in shock, but another cannot help but to think of all the things that you should have said when there was time.

David Carr was my professor at Boston University. The class was called Press Play and addressed topics as vague as the title.

My encounter with David had three distinct levels of abstraction.

First level

I was an Ocean away. Rome, Italy. A moody day, when you don’t really know what to do. I decided that I would watch a documentary, “Page One: Inside the New York Times”. I was toying with the idea of becoming a reporter. That’s the first time I saw David, the ruffled hair, the hunched shoulders, his eyes betraying an unexpected boyishness. He owned the documentary, drew it around his persona by the gravitational force of his charisma. In fact, the only thing I remember now of the movie is him.

He walked into the class, years later, with the same energy. It drew you to him, made you want to impress him. I was not surprised, meeting him in person, that he had been able to capture my attention from another continent. I wanted to be like him, talk like him. My colleagues and I would often imitate his mannerisms. We would say, “He killed it!” like he did when somebody impressed him, a rare occasion. We would listen in on all of his stories, even if he repeated them more than once. I even brought gluten free cookies to class, which he made fun of for the entire semester. “Here,” he said throwing doughnuts on the table. “Sorry they are not gluten free.”

Second Level

The second time I saw David I went looking for him. He was coming to Boston University in 2014 for a lecture on the future of journalism. I sat in the audience and listened to his insightful analysis of media today. He was dressed in clothes that seemed too big for him, his surprisingly skinny neck emerging from a navy blue blazer. He could talk to young people, especially young reporters. He instilled a hope for the future of media that was a far cry from “you will never have a job as a journalist,” that others shared. He cracked jokes, he was cocky, charmingly so.

In class David was a populist. He allowed us to intervene and occasionally interrupt. He had two types of laughter with his students. A bemused grin, with a twinkle in his blue eye, could mean anything from “this is interesting,” to “I already know this,” to “I am going to rip this to shreds once you are done talking.” He also had a real croaky, almost cough-like, laugh. This one was more sincere, but less occurring.

Third Level

My third encounter was as his student at Boston University. He walked into the class shyly, his head bowed as it always was. He had prepared what he was going to say, as he would for every class, his fingers scrolling his notes on his red I Pad. I had waited to meet him for years and could not believe that he was teaching me. At first he wasn’t a great teacher, dispersive and chaotic. But he got better, he taught himself to be better, and when needed he asked his students for advice.

He wanted us to learn and to be good reporters. When the scandal regarding Bill Cosby and the alleged rapes emerged, David wrote a piece denouncing himself as one of the many enablers in the media that had kept it a secret for so long. He showed us how to be brave, how to speak our minds and keep our integrity as journalists.

He invited us to lectures and brought other great reporters to class. He would joke about his popularity on Twitter, “it’s like being famous in Japan.” He offered his help freely, for recommendation letters, career advice or just conversation.

I walked into his office to ask for his help. He gave it to me gladly, with jokes and chips at hand. The room had an orange glow, papers were placed in neat piles. Pictures of his daughters on the wall, he was so proud of them. His raspy voice bouncing over the desk, on the walls, calm but with always a hint of aggression. He would force himself to listen, but he was a talker. He had a lot to say.

When I left the room I wanted to tell him. tell him that he was a huge part of why I had become a journalist. That I was glad to have crossed an Ocean to meet him. That even though he could be tough, he had been a great mentor, a friend.

He died today and I wish I had told him, let him know how he touched my life from so far and then again as a professor. I wish I had asked him more questions. I wish I had let him know that his students, us and the ones to follow, the ones that will never have a chance to meet him, were lucky.

I shook his hand. “Thank you professor, this really means a lot to me,” he looked at me with the bemused twinkle in his eye.

I shut the door.