A bright star taken far too soon
Losing someone near and dear is bad enough. Losing someone in the prime of his life is cruel.
Carey Latimore IV, my friend and colleague in Trinity University’s history department, died this week at the age of 46. Just writing this last sentence is incredulous to me.
Many people have contacted me saying they had just been in touch with Carey, mostly talking about projects he had in mind. His future was supernova bright. It doesn’t seem fair that he was taken away from San Antonio, a community suddenly much less than it was the day before he passed.
Carey came to Trinity in 2004. Many have said that I was a mentor to him; in fact, we mentored each other over the years, helping when needed during the many tough times in life, something he did with just about everyone he knew. He succeeded me as chair of the history department and remained in that position for nine years — no one wanted him to stop being chair.
He had an unorthodox leadership style, leading with love rather than by fiat. Carey became a respected scholar of African American history as well as the American Civil War. He was a popular professor, and his impact on students will be felt for decades. Teaching was his calling. Commenting on his students, he once said that, “to see them work through difficult topics continues to
inspire me. The opportunity to be a part of their growth is the greatest blessing that any professor could have.”
Typical humility — when, in fact, it has been all of us inspired by him.
An ordained Baptist minister, Carey was an associate minister at Mt. Zion Baptist Church.
He brought his ministerial training into the classroom and lecture hall, with the innate ability to connect with students and general audiences alike. His faith was unbending, and it was developed and reinforced growing up in rural Virginia under the life tutelage of his two wonderful parents.
He had many distinguishing
personal characteristics that empowered him and those around him. Carey was compassionate, empathetic, and vibrated with a passion for life. He saw the good in everything. He worked to bring people together, harmonize opposing perspectives, and facilitate civil discourse on controversial topics.
Because of this, I invited Carey to participate in periodic brainstorming sessions I first organized and led for then mayoral-candidate Ron Nirenberg. These have continued into Nirenberg’s third term as mayor. I invited top businesspersons, community leaders and academics to these sessions to
discuss a variety of issues important to San Antonio.
Carey became a fixture at these meetings. At first, he did not talk all that much. But his voice grew, emboldened by experience, to the point where I was asking him to make presentations and critical observations on important issues to lead off our discussions. This was accompanied by his growing voice overall with a slew of documentaries airing mostly on the History Channel, appearances with local and national media outlets, and his growing involvement and impact in the San Antonio community, including serving on various committees having to do with the redevelopment of the Alamo. One of his passions was to establish a civil rights institute at the historic Kress Building downtown. Unfortunately, the pandemic interrupted these plans, and he was looking forward to reengaging in this effort in the near future.
Carey had been suffering from a variety of ailments the last couple of years. He was constantly poked and prodded by doctors trying to figure out what was wrong. He never complained. He never gave up. Doctors recently found what was causing the pain. We spoke shortly after the diagnosis a few weeks ago, and although it was fairly serious, Carey was relieved to finally have an answer as well as a very positive prognosis for a full recovery. He was definitely eager to attack and conquer all of this with his customary verve and confidence, and then to resume impacting and changing lives. And he most assuredly would have done so, but for a heart that apparently was beaten up too much by the strains from other parts of his body.
First and foremost, however, Carey was a loving husband. He and his wife, Almie, shared a love and faith that was so impressively deep and strong — and it forever will remain so. And he was a great friend to me, to Trinity University, and to the San Antonio community and beyond. Whenever we got together, we would always depart by giving a man-hug and saying, “love ya brother.” Carey, you will be missed so much by so many. Love ya brother.