In the cramped and warm confines of his Oakland apartment, our research group would gather in early evenings, huddled over stacks of notes and well-worn books. The apartment itself was modest, almost sparse, save for the intellectual energy engulfing the space. His refrigerator was often empty, save for a jar of peanut butter and jelly or a fruit tart he had picked up along his homeward bicycle trip from Berkeley. A fitting metaphor for Michael: conjuring ideas, funding students, and sustaining a relentless pursuit of knowledge on the barest of material needs. What he lacked in groceries, he more than made up for with intellectual feasts and fanfare. He did not merely teach; he provoked, he challenged, he made us think—often well past the point of comfort.

For me, Michael’s intellectual legacy is inextricably tied to Gramsci. It was he who first introduced me to the Italian Marxist, whose writings became foundational to my life and work. Like so many others, I engaged with Michael on the concept of the public intellectual—a bridging of the traditional and organic intellectual. This was not just something Michael taught; it was something he embodied, breathed, and bled. Yes, he was a scholar in the academy but always reaching beyond it, engaging with workers, activists, and professionals with an urgency that made the historical dialogue between Marxism and sociology feel alive; a praxis embodied in nervous pacing and thumbnail biting.

He was also, at times, relentless. I learned that the hard way, the day I made the mistake of asking him for a letter of recommendation on the day it was due. His response was swift and unforgiving. He scolded me in a way that cut straight to my core, a rare moment where the ever-charismatic mentor became something else—a disciplinarian who would not indulge irresponsibility. I left in tears. But Michael, ever the dialectician, did not leave things there. A few days later, in his Barrows office, he would share a shot of Russian vodka and, with a wry smile, let me know that the lesson had been learned. And once, he grabbed my hand and pulled me into a jig, turning my sour mood into uncontrollable laughter. With Michael, there was always the critique, but always, too, the care.

Michael died that day in February, but he continues to live on. I hear him in the classroom, I hear him during office hours, I hear him cursing, as I watch my Gunners draw with Man U at Old Trafford. While my days of exclaiming “bloody brilliant” are behind me, I still discipline students to embody theory à la Burawoy. For over twenty years, his infamous final theory exam—once a solo poster exercise—evolved into a two-hour, food-fueled debate among groups of four and five in Spokane eateries. A new generation now lives through the stress and strain, learning to embody Marx, Durkheim, Weber, Gramsci, Fanon, Foucault, McKinnon, Collins, Bourdieu, and beyond. And, like Michael, I continue to insist that theory must be lived and debated, struggled over, and fought for in the public arena. In small ways and grand ones, we continue to carry Michael with us. His journey is not over, and neither is ours. Avanti!