Devin Sanchez Curry

JACOB MACDAVID

The SUNY Potsdam philosophy program will figure prominently in any story I tell about my intellectual development, or the meaningfulness of my life. Among the things I most value about myself are my (admittedly limited) critical thinking skills and my (admittedly very limited) knowledge of philosophy, its history and central issues. No place has fostered these aspects of my personality more than Potsdam philosophy. Each course expanded my awareness of the discipline, the world, and myself. I owe a tremendous debt to my teachers, Rachel Fedock, Matt LaVine, Timothy Murphy, and Joseph DiGiovanna. The larger Potsdam philosophical community, including other professors and my undergraduate peers, is among the greatest academic groups I’ve ever known. We met, formally, at weekly club meetings called Philosophy Forum; and informally at restaurants, bars, and lounges.

Of this enormously important philosophical community, no one contributed more time, effort, and care to my growth than my mentor, Doctor David Curry. Pursuing philosophy from Potsdam, to the University of Houston, to Ohio State University has been one of the most life-affirming projects of my life. I would not be on this path if not for the encouragement and wisdom of Dr. Curry. I carry an immense amount of gratitude for him. In most circumstances, it would be nauseatingly sentimental for me to express this gratitude, which is why I’m excited to contribute to this festschrift. If there’s any place for nauseating sentimentality, it’s here.

The following is a brief memoir of my relationship with Dr. Curry at Potsdam. A quick note: these days I’m on a first name basis with David; but this document is meant to capture my experience as an undergraduate. At the time, I knew him as Dr. Curry. I will refer to him as such throughout.

Freshman Year, 2013–2014

Before I met Dr. Curry, I heard about him from my friends Katherine Danforth and Kate Nicole Hoffman. They lived with me on the honors floor, at the bottom of Bowman East, and they talked often about the “Athens Game.” From what I gathered, this was an ambitious unit in an Intro to Philosophy class, where each student played a different role in a re-created Trial of Socrates. The game involved deal-making (Katherine talked about bribing the jury), speech-writing, and some understanding of the plausible legal defenses of Ancient Athens. Katherine and Kate spoke glowingly of the course and the instructor, Dr. Curry. The class sounded incredibly fun and enriching. I made a mental note to enroll soon in a Curry class.

At the end of my first semester, the semester of the Athens Game, I received my first email from Dr. Curry. He informed me that he’d heard from Rachel Fedock, my Intro to Philosophy professor, that I was doing well in her class. He encouraged me to pursue a major or minor in philosophy. It was just a standard email, I’m sure. I’ve sent similar emails of my own. I also already intended to major in philosophy. Nonetheless, it was the first time that Dr. Curry encouraged me, and so it stands out in my memory. It helped, also, that I already had a high opinion of Dr. Curry, from the testimony of Katherine and Kate.

I didn’t interact directly with Dr. Curry for the rest of the academic year. However, in the Spring, I enrolled in one of the greatest classes I’ve ever taken: Matt LaVine’s Intro to Logic. Matt was a student of Curry’s, and so for the first time I (indirectly) benefited from Dr. Curry’s legacy.

Sophomore Year, 2014–2015

I don’t believe I attended Philosophy Forum in my first year. By sophomore year, though, the club became a serious part of my academic and social life. I remember several of my first meetings distinctly, because they gave me an opportunity to discuss philosophy with Dr. Curry.

We debated free will and moral responsibility. The view I defended, I believe, was that mental states such as beliefs, desires, and intentions are identical to brain states, which are constituted entirely by chemicals, which obey the laws of physics, and so free will is impossible. Dr. Curry was a persistent, sometimes-intense, and always edifying interlocutor. I remember these interactions fondly. It was affirming to have a professional philosopher listen carefully to my arguments, and treat me seriously enough to pose powerful objections. Besides that, it was just fun to chat philosophy with Dr. Curry. We’d end up spending quite a lot of time doing that, over the next few years.

In the Spring of that academic year, I finally enrolled in a Curry class, Modern Philosophy. We covered the history of philosophy from Galileo’s mathematical Book of Nature to the end of Kant’s dogmatic slumbers. I’d already formed a personal connection with Curry, already discussed philosophy with him, but it was still an unexpected pleasure to attend his lectures. Folks like Descartes, Spinoza, Leibniz, Locke, Berkeley, and Kant are not easy to read, and harder to teach. Curry made it seem easy. His passion for the material, his precision in his explanations, his ability to understand and address our questions, it all left a major impression on me as a philosopher and a teacher. I’ve returned to these early moderns many times over the past decade, and each time I feel a bit of Dr. Curry’s presence, a bit of his guidance. Many times, I’ve finally fully understood some tricky passage (even under the best instruction, these things take time), and I’ll recall a segment of Dr. Curry’s lecture. So that’s what Curry was saying! It’s almost like he’s still teaching me about it now.

For that class, I wrote a paper comparing Descartes’ and Pascal’s arguments for the conclusion that we should believe in God. I put many hours into the first draft. Curry returned it with thoughtful and penetrating objections. I knew he was right, but I didn’t know how to fix the paper. I visited his office hours—a few years down the line, I’d spend much more time in that office, discussing my writing—and talked the problem through with Curry. The conversation was incredibly helpful. This was one of my first times around the draft, feedback, discuss, re-write cycle. Throughout, Dr. Curry was helpful and encouraging, but he never offered false flattery. He helped me to appreciate the joy of the trial-and-errors of philosophical writing. To prepare for this memoir, I re-read that paper. It’s not too bad, and I still remember the places where Dr. Curry helped me.

Junior Year 2015–2016

The God thread continued next semester. I enrolled in Dr. Curry’s Philosophy of Religion, held in a basement lecture hall. We had an established connection, at this point, and I was growing more comfortable with philosophy. Those two elements made for one of the most enjoyable classes in my time at Potsdam. Like in the Modern Philosophy class, I admired Dr. Curry’s lectures, and his deftness in responding to questions.

As I write, two memories of that class present themselves to me. Philosophy of Religion was a morning class, and so if you didn’t sleep well, it showed in your face. I learned this lesson one morning, after a night of undergraduate debauchery. I dragged my feet from the townhouse to Kellas Hall (I think that’s where the class was; some academic building nearby, if not Kellas), and heaved myself into a desk. Dr. Curry gave me a concerned look, asked, “Are you okay?” I was Okay, just hungover. But it was touching to me that he checked in. He didn’t lay on the sentimentality, but by his tone I could tell he was genuinely interested in my well-being.

The other memory is less embarrassing for me. Sophomore year, I started listening, slowly, through Bob Dylan’s catalog. That semester, I finally reached Highway 61 Revisited. The album blew me away, from the exuberant “It Takes a Lot to Laugh, It Takes a Train to Cry,” to the derisive “Ballad of a Thin Man,” to the haunting and enigmatic “Desolation Row.”

Before class, I told Dr. Curry that I’d just heard the album, excited for his response. His eyes lit up, he smiled wryly, and recited:

God said to Abraham, “Kill me a son”

Abe said, “Man, you must be puttin’ me on”

God say, “No.”

Abe say, “What?”

God say, “You can do what you want, Abe, but

The next time you see me comin’ you better run”

Well, Abe said, “Where you want this killin’ done?”

God said, “Out on Highway 61”

This moment is important: other than philosophy, my favorite thing to discuss with Dr. Curry is music. We both enjoy classic rock and folk (though I’m more inclined to the poppier side of those genres than Curry), and over the years we’ve spent hours on the topic. This is the first exchange I can recall.

After Philosophy of Religion, Dr. Curry and I would often walk to his office. He encouraged me, during these walks, to consider an honors major in philosophy. The last person to complete this program was Matt LaVine, whom I admired (and admire) tremendously. The idea attracted me, but I was worried I didn’t have the time or skill. The honors major required many more classes, as well as a thesis. At the time, I was struggling through a metaphysics class. I told Dr. Curry that if I did well there, I’d enroll. He thought I was being overly-cautious. Turns out he was right: Dr. Murphy taught that course, and guided me to a good grade.

I would have ended up a philosophy major, even without the previously-mentioned email from Curry. I would not have enrolled in the honors major, if not for his encouragement. It was one of my best decisions in undergrad, and it has made a tremendous difference to my life as a graduate student.

The next semester, Spring 2016, I enrolled in Dr. Curry’s Ancient Philosophy. I knew Curry was a Plato scholar, and so I looked forward to the class. He didn’t disappoint. I still remember how he took the seemingly outrageous views of the pre-Socratics—everything is water; everything was once air—and made them intuitive. For a few minutes at a time, he even made them compelling. The class became even more exciting when we arrived at Socrates and Plato. I pushed back against the view that it’s impossible to harm a good man, and Dr. Curry showed me various plausible maneuvers available to Socrates, to resist my objections.

The most important thing I gained from the class, though, wasn’t from the lectures. As I recall, we didn’t touch much on Aristotle, but I wrote my term paper on his Nicomachean Ethics. At the time, I was a staunch, classical utilitarian who took any opportunity to combat rival theories. This term paper fought me more than any other. I visited Dr. Curry’s office several times, always with a fresh idea, and each time Dr. Curry patiently explained to me how I’d misrepresented Aristotle’s view, or how Aristotle could avoid my arguments. I remember saying, with more frustration than humor, “It’s hard to write about this guy!”

Dr. Curry responded with some of the best advice I’ve ever received: “Grappling with Aristotle is an excellent use of your time.” That quote inverted my experience. Instead of looking at my failures with annoyance or resignation, I looked at them with pride. I was using my time well, even if I hadn’t gotten it right.

I’ve passed this advice to many of my own students. Whether it’s Aristotle or Alfred Whitehead, Saint Augustine or Simone de Beauvoir, grappling with philosophy is an excellent use of time.

That semester, Dr. Curry encouraged me and a few other students to apply to the Oneonta undergraduate conference. It’s yet another project that, without him, I wouldn’t have thought to try. Oneonta accepted a paper I’d written for Curry’s religion class, on the injustice of the Aquinian conception of hell. I rehearsed the talk at Forum, where I was stiff but precise. When I presented at Oneonta, I felt loose, confident, quick. It helped to have Drs. Curry and Murphy in the audience, silently supporting. That presentation is a happy memory.

My fellow Potsdam presenters—Katie Ebersole, Alex Coombs, Cole Heideman—also gave great talks, and I enjoyed watching them. Even more fun, though, was afterward, when the Potsdam gang hung out in Curry and Murphy’s hotel room. We chatted about music, philosophy, sports, and the conference. The post-talk hang with fellow academics is one of the great pleasures of the field. I was lucky to have this moment, so early in my studies. Plus, I got the chance to defend Paul McCartney against Curry’s pro-Lennon slander.

The semester closed with a party at Dr. Curry’s house (a party not unlike, I’m sure, the one for which I’m writing this memoir). There, Dr. Curry bestowed on me a great gift: access to his computer full of music. At his request, I brought a USB, and downloaded countless great albums. Some of them became part of the soundtrack of the next few years of my life. A few examples: Neil Young’s Harvest; The Band’s The Band; Led Zeppelin’s Led Zeppelin II & III; Crosby, Still, Nash, & Young’s Déjà Vu; and some unreleased live Currys tunes.

Senior Year, 2016–2017

Dr. Curry convinced me to pursue the honors major in philosophy. That meant I needed to enroll in an upper-level moral philosophy course, which at the time Potsdam wasn’t offering. Though Curry doesn’t specialize in ethics, he ran the course. I want to repeat that: so that I could complete the honors philosophy major, Dr. Curry taught a class outside of his comfort zone. As a teacher now, I recognize how much work it is to put together a class. I’m amazed, and so grateful, that he did that for me. Of course, I wasn’t the only one who benefitted. As I remember, it was a full room (I’ve never seen a Curry class with low attendance), and as always the lectures and discussion were entertaining and edifying. Still, it was extra work that Curry didn’t need to do, and it made a huge difference to my undergraduate education.

I also needed to write a thesis, which meant I needed a thesis advisor. I knew that this, too, would be a big task for Curry. I felt a bit guilty, asking him to advise me. To his credit, Curry never acted like it was any trouble. I had nothing but positive experiences, visiting his office about once a week, talking with him, sending him drafts, as I slowly pieced together my most ambitious work yet. Usually, when memories of Dr. Curry occur to me, they’re memories of those meetings. I remember the shelves of books, the smoke from an electronic cigarette, Dr. Curry’s insightful comments, the view through his window of the grassy quad.

I owe a debt to Curry, for many things, but for nothing more than the work he put into teaching me my senior year at Potsdam.

Senior year was also PhD application year. Curry gave me the standard advice: The job market for philosophy professors is so bleak, that you shouldn’t pursue a PhD in philosophy unless you can’t imagine yourself doing anything else. Luckily, I know very little about real jobs, and so it was easy work for me to fail to imagine myself doing anything else. I was worried, though, that I didn’t have what it takes to succeed in a doctoral program. Once again, Curry provided the encouragement I needed. “You definitely have the chops,” he said to me and my friend Kate Nicole (she recently graduated from the doctoral program at UPenn), when we asked. Along with Matt LaVine and Timothy Murphy, he wrote me a letter of recommendation. I am honored to have letters from those three.

Anyone who’s applied to graduate programs knows the emotional toll of rejection. Here, again, Dr. Curry supported me. He assured me that, though I could expect lots of bad news, the process was a “crapshoot,” and that it didn’t reflect my ability. One of the last programs to get back to me was the University of Houston. They told me they would accept me into their master’s program, but couldn’t offer me funding. That was unacceptable, and so I considered it a rejection. Dr. Curry asked about it, and when I shared the bad news, he swore. It was a small thing, but it felt nice, affirming. If you’ve ever had someone immediately empathize with a misfortune of yours, you’ll know the warm feeling. Once again, it was a sign of how much Curry cared about my future.

Eventually, Houston got desperate and offered me funding. I took it.

The spring semester brought the Representing Reality, UPenn-at-Potsdam conference. If memory serves, Dr. Curry had visited Philadelphia to visit his son Devin. Devin was working on his dissertation, “How Beliefs are Like Colors,” under the direction of Gary Hatfield. Dr. Curry chatted with the other Hatfield students, and eventually welcomed them up to present at Potsdam (I wasn’t present, but it may be that some libations precipitated this generosity). Back in the North Country, Curry proposed that we host a conference for these students, with Hatfield as keynote. I remember the electric feeling when Curry pitched the idea. It felt like one of the most exciting ideas for the program yet. This was the sort of ambitious, climactic project that would perfectly cap my years at Potsdam. We’d get the psychology department, the honors program, and the Philosophy Forum together for the event. I became heavily involved, along with many of my friends, organizing and funding and advertising the conference. It was intrinsically very exciting to interact with grad students, knowing that I would soon join their ranks. It also gave me the chance to talk with a professional philosopher outside of the department, Gary Hatfield, more than I’d been able to chat with other Forum guests. The experience there also helped me later. At OSU, I’ve co-facilitated two (now almost three) Minorities and Philosophy conferences. The UPenn event helped me to navigate that bureaucratic world. The conference, I believe, was a great success. We filled the eighth floor of Raymond Hall for Hatfield’s keynote.

The semester ended with my thesis defense, “On the Plausibility of Hedonism.” For about an hour, Drs. LaVine, Murphy, and Tartaglia grilled me, while Curry observed. A moment sticks out in my mind. Dr. Tartaglia asked me a tricky question. After some stuttering, some maneuvering, I finally managed to answer him. From the side of the table, Dr. Curry gave me a silent thumbs-up. A silent thumbs-up from Dr. Curry means more than effusive praise from an average professor. That alone made it a successful defense.

On graduation day, I finally introduced my parents to Dr. Curry. It was a surreal experience. Over the past few years, Dr. Curry had become an intellectual father figure to me. My parents were finally all meeting. After that, Kate Nicole and I ensured that we got a picture with Dr. Curry (I believe you can see Kate’s entry in this book for proof). Dr. Curry meant the world to us, played no small part in bringing us together as friends, and the day would be incomplete without that photograph.

After Senior Year, 2017-Present

I haven’t mentioned everything, of course. I could bring up plenty more ways that Dr. Curry has helped me through the years—how after I told him I couldn’t find a digital copy of Bob Dylan’s rare “George Jackson,” he bought the relevant CD and sent me the file (though that purchase was just as much for him as for me); how he helped me to secure a room with my Fredonia partner for my second Oneonta conference, and so forth—but I think I’ve written enough to sketch his importance to me.

Since Potsdam, we’ve stayed in communication, though of course much less than before. In 2019, when I prepared to re-apply to PhD programs, he invited me to present my writing sample at Philosophy Forum. The feedback helped, and returning to my philosophical hometown also reminded me of how much I love this field. In the early 2020s, Curry was among the people leading the fight against the dissolution of the Potsdam philosophy department. I followed: signing petitions, mailing letters. Most recently, in an email exchange with Curry, I discovered that his teacher was taught by one of my philosophical heroes, Bernard Williams. That was a cool revelation. I’m sure there will be plenty more, as our friendship goes on.

It’s March 2025. I’m far along the path I started with Dr. Curry and the other philosophers at Potsdam. Next year, May 2026, I’ll receive my PhD, and I’ll finally face that bleak job market. I feel now the full force of the standard advice against pursuing a PhD. It’s likely that my professional philosophical journey will soon end, and I’ll have to find work somewhere else. If that happens, it’s likely that I’ll have far less time for philosophy. My knowledge and skills will fade. A few decades from now, I might surprise myself when I remember how much time I used to sink into studying philosophy. These thoughts lead me to the question: did I waste a decade of my life, pursuing a path that I was warned would likely to be a career dead end?

I answer this question with Curry’s advice. Grappling with Aristotle, with philosophy, is an excellent use of time. No matter how much I’m able to grapple in the future, I’m incredibly grateful for all the time I’ve already been able to devote to it. I’m happy with how I’ve spent my life, so far. I owe much of this joy, much of what made my twenties life-affirming, to SUNY Potsdam Philosophy. I owe it to Dr. Curry.