John Michael Haiman

John Michael Haiman, beloved father, grandfather, and partner, died on April 7, 2025 of congestive heart failure at his home in Brooklyn, NY. He died in his study surrounded by his books, his piano, and a lifetime of artwork and poems created by his family and friends. His partner Beth and daughters, Claire and Nina, were at his bedside until the end which came peacefully and quickly - exactly as he would have wanted.

John was born January 31, 1946 în Timișoara, Romania. Shortly after his birth, he and his mother moved to Switzerland before emigrating to Toronto where they settled in a small enclave of Hungarian Jews, friends of his mother’s from Europe.

Always a gifted student, John skipped two grades, graduated from University of Toronto in 1967 and earned a PhD in linguistics from Harvard in 1971 before joining the faculty at the University of Manitoba in 1975 and then Macalester College in 1989. John did extensive work on Hua, Rhaeto-Romance, and Khmer, and received the Killam and Guggenheim Fellowships for his work on sarcasm. John worked hard but made it look easy- his intellectual pursuits were an extension of his deep curiosity and creativity. The last years of his life found him diligently plugging away on his nth language - Arabic - working with native speakers here in Brooklyn as well as making use of Duolingo (a first for him). A lifelong lover of science, in the last weeks of his life he was rereading, for the fifth time, a biography of quantum physicist Paul Dirac.

John’s intellect was actually the least of his talents. He was truly his own person: eccentric, joyful, and deeply kind.

Totally unconcerned with popular opinion or convention, John carried a remarkably purse-like bilum through the 1980’s a practical keepsake from his field work in New Guinea, rubbed his face with the hot towels at Japanese restaurants, and picked up litter off the streets with his bare hands.

If you were lucky enough to be one of the people he loved, you were cherished. It made him happy to see you happy. Being with him was calm, cozy. Up for anything, he brought a spirit of fun to any endeavor - a family road trip, a mundane errand, a staid linguistics conference. His presence communicated ease and possibility. Deeply kind, he loved the everyday intimacies of familiarity.

Known to carry cockroaches outside to safety, John was an animal lover through and through, devoted to his childhood cats, and then dog Sota, pigs Omar, Lucy, Romy, and Sophie, and innumerable neighborhood raccoons. It was their shared love of pot belly pigs that initially brought Beth and John together, ushering in eight blissfully happy years.

He had a reverence for plant life. Not much of a technophile, John got an app to identify any unfamiliar plants he happened upon while out on a walk. He grew a garden when he had the space (often a little scruffy because he hated to even pluck out a weed - “it’s not a weed; it’s a volunteer”) and lavished much care and attention on a collection of houseplants when he didn’t. He even installed a skylight specifically to ensure that his gigantic philodendron had enough sun.

Professionally, he constantly remarked on his incredible good luck to be paid to do what he loved, and worked on papers until the very end of his life. He was smart, but utterly without pretension; he introduced himself as a teacher, not a professor, and was generally found in a homemade T-shirt. His office was decorated floor to ceiling with kids’ artwork. He treasured handmade art and handwritten letters more than any other gift and saved every single one. Politically, he was committed to doing his part, spending countless hours petitioning on street corners, knocking doors, stuffing envelopes and donating generously to campaigns and organizations.

A lover of art, he didn’t distinguish between high and low, only what moved him, and he loved these equally: The Highwayman, The Hat, Sylvester and Magic Pebble, The Fat Cat, Look What I Can Do, Borges, Watership Down, Wittgenstein, the Monkey’s Paw, L’America, The Battle of Algiers, Dave Barry, Bill Bryson, The Big Lebowski, Schubert, Bach, Scott Joplin, Dave van Ronk, Jimmy Cliff, Raging Bull, Olive Kittredge. He was comfortable having holes in his cultural knowledge, because he only wanted to study the things he loved - he had no need to be a completist.

Before leaving St. Paul, John met regularly with his old friend Henry to accompany him on the piano as Henry sang their favorite Schubert songs. He practiced piano nearly every day. While sometimes indulging himself with his old favorites, more often he could be heard laboring over a particularly challenging and frustrating Bach fugue. At the time of his death he and his grandson Utah were working on two four-handed Schubert arrangements. And he sang all day long, while cooking, making the bed, or deliberating over his next move in a Scrabble game; the home rang with his happy voice.

A six-time marathoner, John was a workhorse. He biked or walked to work in Minnesota winters, carried bags, woke in the dark to fix breakfast, and remained magnanimous even after sleepless nights. As soon as dinner was over he would roll up his sleeves and lunge for the sink to commence dishwashing. Even in the last months of his life he was picking up grandkids and taking the bus to get his hair cut.

John’s memory was remarkable. He could recite poems he learned in high school- and retained detailed knowledge of seemingly every classroom lesson he ever received. He could memorize 10 digit phone numbers in the blink of an eye. He combined this memory with his gift for language to retell his kids and grandkids short stories while canoeing, while hiking, and, most importantly, at bedtime. The peaceful tone of his voice was the last thing many heard as they drifted off to sleep.

John focused on what mattered most in life and assiduously tended to that. He didn’t care about things, and understood that the real luxury was time. Waiting in line was his nemesis while an unhurried day sitting in the sun was a gift. Happy with a book or the crossword on his couch, his feet up on the coffee table, sitting on his back deck and watching his pigs, that first sip of coffee in the morning (“aaaah!”), a story you were sharing (“what exactly did they say?”) - John savored life. From December 21st on he was happy the days were getting longer, no matter the weather.

Always gracious, John would insist on walking people to the door (and often down the street a ways). This was true whether you were a first time guest, a hospice nurse, an old friend, child, grandchild, or partner. No matter how short the errand, whenever Beth left their home, he would pause and accompany her to the door for a quick kiss and loving admonishment to take care.

His daughters, Claire and Nina, and his partner, Beth, are honored and grateful that they could “walk him to the door” as he left this life. They mourn him deeply, as do their families: Ed, Agatha, and Vivien; Alex, Utah, and Malcolm; Anna; Carolyn, Adam, Jack, and Maddy; Audrey, Eric, and August. He will be remembered in the warmth of the sun, his innumerable sayings, and his unfailing decency. A service will take place June 1 in Brooklyn, NY. In lieu of flowers, please contribute to one of his favorite charities (links for donations are below in the donations tab):

UNHCR- the UN refugee agency, the International Rescue Committee, or the Ironwood Pig Sanctuary.

Linguistic Society of America obituary link: https://www.lsadc.org/content.asp?admin=Y&contentid=471&mc_cid=98c459b467&mc_eid=e94f73cd50