The Federation Loses a Longtime Leader and a Strong Advocate for Becoming all One Can Be
by Gary Wunder
One of the benefits of being a part of the National Federation of the Blind is getting to know some really special people. The man I write to honor is in the top tier. He was a friend who enjoyed telling and hearing jokes, teasing people he loved, and trying to uphold a sense of optimism in everything he did. He had a family, a job, and lots of loyal friends. This was exactly what I wanted in my life, and I never found a role model who was easier to get to know.
Although I knew him long before, Allen was a mentor to me when I joined the National Board of Directors, was a good sounding board as I tried to navigate being state president, and was an inspiration to me as I studied his history, his humanity, the way he changed people’s lives, and the perspectives he held on issues that went far beyond blindness. Whether we talked about the state of the country, the future for blind people, the rapidly changing technology that might leave us behind, or the challenges involved in recruiting and keeping new people, my friend was always an optimist. One of his favorite sayings was, “We’ll figure it out.”
Allen, a longtime high school wrestling coach, helped me root out and eliminate my bias against coaches who became social studies teachers. In my snobby opinion, they really wanted to be coaches and weren’t very gifted academically. I don’t have any examples I can use to justify this stereotype, but too often my ego has been nurtured at the expense of others and, of course, I was studying the hard sciences. But Allen Harris had a distinguished academic career, one that I could not easily dismiss. Graduating Magna Cum Laude, talking history, sharing political views, and revealing himself as a man of passion and compassion, Allen Harris replaced my unhealthy bias with life-sustaining optimism and taught me a different way to think and a caution about coming to premature and damaging conclusions.
One of the things that fascinated me about the story of Allen Harris was his desire to get a job. He said that he sent out more than two hundred resumes and attended almost one hundred interviews before he got an offer. Part of his life’s work was to make it easier for other blind people who would follow, but he also knew that there was a certain toughness required to be blind and successful, and he believed that part of his job was being real about that in teaching us how to be tough while not losing our kindness, compassion, and gentleness.
All of those interviews resulted in a career that found him teaching for decades in the public schools and then moving into the field of blindness professionally. He worked as the assistant director of the agency for the blind in New York and then as the director of the Iowa Department for the Blind. In both jobs he was determined to win for blind people, and he was fond of saying that if we don’t take a risk and gamble on the difficult ones, be they the difficult jobs or the difficult people to place, we really aren’t doing our clients a service. He was also dedicated to increasing the morale on staff, doing his best to communicate that the field of rehabilitating the blind was honorable and, when done right, infinitely rewarding to the client and the professional alike. This sometimes put him at odds with other agencies, for the increases he won to keep professionals in the field sometimes placed them above others who believed they were doing similar work for far less pay.
Allen served as the president of the National Federation of the Blind of Michigan from 1976 to 1999, meaning he held down a fulltime job while simultaneously being an officer. His presidency saw the creation of the Michigan Commission for the Blind in 1978, the creation of a day camp, and the start of Saturday school in the 80s. Throughout much of his presidency, Allen served on the National Board of Directors. After his election in 1981, he was elected as the corporate secretary in 1985 and then as the treasurer in 1988. He served in that capacity until 2002. He may be best known for his work in helping to establish and then administering the Kenneth Jernigan Fund that has been responsible for getting so many first-timers to our national conventions.
As impressive as his organizational contributions were, the transformation he made in the lives of others is the thing for which he will be most fondly remembered. Steve Handschu said, “The thing I remember most fondly about Allen and the change he made in my life was that he got me to understand that the words ‘blindness’ and ‘dignity’ could appear in the same sentence. . . Allen made me and others feel that we could do better without making us feel that we were in any way lacking. … If we wanted to make Allen happy, and certainly we did, the way was through our own self-improvement. Because he liked us, any success was ours and his, and, as was so characteristic of Allen, he was always looking for the “win-win.”
Steve relates a memorable moment when, at a banquet, a blind colleague yelled out, “They have given me an unbuttered roll, and I need someone to butter it.” So loud and unexpected was this demand that the tables around were temporarily speechless. Allen quietly got up, went to the gentleman, and said, “I won’t butter your roll for you, but I’ll show you how to do it.” Taking the man’s hands, he proceeded to do this without drawing more attention to the incident. What was impressive was Allen’s unquestioning faith that the man could be taught and that Allen was the man to do the teaching.
Steve Handschu’s own transformation didn’t happen just by observing Allen’s work in the lives of others. There was a dinner invitation to which Steve was invited with Allen Harris and John Halverson. While walking to the restaurant Steve fell into a hole. He wasn’t using a cane, a dog, or any kind of alternative technique because, as he had affirmatively stated on a number of occasions, he wasn’t blind. When Allen helped fish Steve out of the hole, he gave Steve his cane, a bit of elementary instruction, and then said, “Now, you use my cane, I’ll follow you, and we’re going to get to the restaurant.”
Steve’s reaction was one of disbelief. “We’re going to a restaurant, my pants have mud on them, and you want me to use your cane while you follow me? Have you never heard the biblical warning about when the blind lead the blind?” Allen suggested that the value of the parable notwithstanding, when he followed Steve he was doing so believing Steve had learned enough to get them where they wanted to go. As for the clothes, there was no time to change them, so he was encouraged to throw vanity to the wind.
Patti Chang said, “Allen was an amazing mentor in my youth and a friend as I became active. He was always someone to emulate from his kindness to his care for learning. Wherever he went, he affected those around him.”
Bridgid Burke remembers: As an NFB staff member, I was fortunate to work with Allen Harris on the Kenneth Jernigan Fund. Allen and Joy Harris, along with Joy’s sister Jay Cobb, worked to organize the first-time convention attendee applications into a list of recipients to help them attend the NFB National Convention for the first time. Every year a small group of people would miss the distribution times and call Allen to tell him their story. Allen and his big heart would reassure the recipient and say he would take care of it. My phone would then ring, and I would hear Allen say, “Well, you know I heard from so and so,” and he’d launch into the story. I’m positive he sprinkled “Allen dust” on it to pull at my heart strings. I was so fortunate to meet and consider Allen and Joy my friends. I miss Allen’s big hugs and wonderful stories.
Barbara Pierce shares these memories: My friendship with Allen goes back to the 1970s. He was a high school teacher at that time, and I can remember thinking what a wonderful teacher he must have been: warm, funny, casual, and no nonsense. He got things done and had a wonderful way of organizing people and getting them to do their best.
I remember NAC Tracking in Edina, Minnesota, one November in the mid-eighties. When our picket line was moving, there was no room for pedestrians on the sidewalk. The hotel was unhappy, so it was not long until the police appeared intent on getting us to clear the walk. Allen was in the small group of Federation leaders negotiating with the police. We had no idea what was being discussed. We were cuddled together, close to a hundred strong, waiting in the bitter cold to hear what would be decided. Suddenly Allen turned around to face us. In that booming voice that could be heard across a gym or a pool, he shouted to us, “Listen up! I want to hear some spontaneous singing, now!” Apparently the police were adamant that we could not walk and block the sidewalk. Someone on our side asked if we could just stand in a group and engage in spontaneous singing. That is what the police agreed to. So sing we did—for five hours, in the cold, with the wind blowing.
Luckily we had a sizable collection of NAC songs and people like Sandy Halverson to help lead us and keep us on pitch. But what I remember best was Allen’s shouted instruction for “spontaneous singing, now!”
Here are the remarks from our national board member and state president of Alabama, Barbara Manuel: When the Harrises moved to Alabama, everyone was elated to have them here. Allen continued his leadership role within the National Federation of the Blind as soon as he got here. His wisdom, intellect, and advocacy were even more apparent up close. Frank Lee was the affiliate president when they arrived, and Allen and Joy immediately became active with our Alabama affiliate. Allen had been a dynamic leader of the organization for forty years or more, and his wisdom was greatly appreciated here.
Over the years, Allen and Joy developed unbreakable bonds with our members. After Joy’s death and Allen revealed his plans to move back to Michigan, members were heartbroken, but we truly understood his wish to be with his family. As we reminisce about him and his contributions to the blind community, we will be eternally grateful to him. Rest in peace, Allen!
We conclude with words selected by his family to convey both their grief and joy. We share in these and will forever hold Allen in our hearts:
O Lord, I have lived this day to bury one I love. My gratitude is as full as my grief, and my peace is as deep as my pain—all because of You. I need You as never before. Shepherd my soul through these dry and heavy days. You send us to Earth for this season, and then You receive us again unto yourself. I understand this cycle, but I wasn’t quite as ready to let go of this one as I thought I’d be.
All my life, I’ve known that someday this would happen, but the finality and reality of it are piercing. One thing I know is that death cannot kill love, and human hands can’t bury it. On this, my loved one’s resurrection day, I give you praise for a life lived well.