One of my earliest and most enduring memories was waking up pre-dawn and seeing the bathroom light on at the end of the hallway. Even at the tender age of three, I knew my father was in the bathroom going through his morning ablutions, preparing for Fajr prayer - the first of the five daily supplications for Muslims. That light meant that a new day had dawned. It also signified something that would turn out to be far more meaningful in my life - the power of devotion.
My father showed his dedication in many ways - from his strong religious beliefs and love for our mother during their forty-four years of marriage (until her death), to his involvement in the Islamic community in Rock Hill, SC, to his successful career as an engineer, to his care for his extended family and us, his children. He was as reliable as a lighthouse and a stoic figure who preferred leading through actions rather than words. He was the definition of leading by example.
Having been brought up in a dedicated Christian family in Pittsburgh, PA, by his father - a respected figure in the community, and his mother - a pioneering entrepreneur, he experienced a comfortable and stable middle-class upbringing centered around family and fellowship. He attended Oberlin College - a progressive liberal arts institution that had been one of the earliest to admit Black students back in the 1830's! However, growing up during a turbulent period in American history - the dawn of the Civil Rights Movement, he felt the need for a deeper connection to his roots.
With a powerful sense of Afro-centric pride and a growing dissatisfaction with the racial status quo, he felt compelled to break away from his conservative rearing in search of a more radical transformation. He dropped out of college and considered joining the Black Panther movement, eventually finding his place in the Nation of Islam in 1970 at the age of twenty-four. The Nation brought him purpose and inner peace which broadened when he met and married his first wife and gave birth to my brother, Kamau whom he originally named Samuel after himself and his father before him.
The Nation of Islam eventually fell victim to corrupted influences within which led my father to Sunni Islam and an embrace of a path for which he would devote the rest of his days. It wasn't an easy path - his parents and relatives didn't understand his shift, but they never rejected him for it. This conversion led him to a disruption in his young marriage which would culminate in a difficult divorce. And it was in this period of significant transition that he would meet my mother - the love of his life who had also come to Islam after a very tumultuous childhood and adolescence.
Falling in love with my mother caused further familial rifts due to her less than pristine upbringing, already having two sons of her own, and a lack of formal education. They truly came from two different worlds, but they found something to hold on to in each other. They quickly married and soon thereafter gave birth to me and then my sister. Then they left the confines of Pittsburgh and embarked on a life together that would take them from Pittsburgh to Charleston, WV and later to Lake Charles, LA, Houston, TX, and eventually Rock Hill, SC where my father found the community for which he'd been seeking for many years.
I never met the version of my father who rebelled from his upbringing, dropped out of school, nearly became a Black Panther, sold Final Call newspapers and bean pies in Pittsburgh as newly minted Muslim Samuel 2X, lived in New York City and worked for TWA airlines. The edition of him who danced and sang along to Aretha Franklin records at parties with his college friend Lamont. The smoker!
This version of my father almost seems like a myth to me - because the man who raised me was the light at the end of the hallway version. A man who committed to a woman from the other side of the tracks with two young sons while having a toddler of his own. The man who worked three jobs to finish his college degree in order to keep food on the table. The man who woke us each morning with the call to prayer. The stoic, self-effacing, observant mathematic savant who read voraciously and loved Star Trek. The bread maker who could cook up a mean chili. The lover of pound cake, ice-cream, and coffee. The man who packed us into a car each December to drive home to be with his extended family even though he no longer celebrated Christmas. The devout Muslim who attended Hajj and fasted for Ramadan every year after his conversion. The beacon version who signified discipline and self-sacrifice in devotion to his faith, family, and community.
Learning about his significant personal evolution was cathartic to me later in life because the example my father set was a hard act to follow. He raised the bar so high it seemed impossible to achieve. But that's what daily commitment and consistency manifests - a character etched in the ethos of chopping wood and carrying water no matter what. It's the pattern of twenty-mile marching that manifests a level of progress that is difficult to emulate.
His religious identity became the idea that would define him. It permeated every dimension, interaction, and relationship in his life. But it was something personal to him. He didn't demand that we match his zeal. He didn't force us to adhere to his standard. He merely set the example and allowed us to witness what would spool forth from a lifetime of consistency.
My father was the very essence of influence. He was humility and will in action. He was the definition of love in verb form. He was steeped in values, morals, and principles.
I realized that my passion for leadership is a natural extension of the effect of my father on my life. By learning about leading - I came to understand how I'd been led. It is now apparent to me that while authoring my various books, developing keynote lectures, crafting training, and consulting - what I've actually been doing is codifying my father's living example and allowing the world to bear witness. My father got his principles from Islam - I got mine from watching him.
His final lesson to me was enduring the eventual hardship of aging with illness. Since his diagnosis of interstitial lung disease and scleroderma four years ago it has been a process of dealing with loss - of lung function, swallowing ability, significant weight, independence, ability to eat by mouth, and eventually life itself. My father confronted all of this with dignity, humility, and faith. When he could no longer drive to the masjid he prayed at home. When he could no longer stand and bend and kneel, he prayed on the side of the bed. When he could no longer exit the bed, he prayed lying down. But he did not stop believing and acting on his faith.
He was cogent and articulate until the end and faced death as courageously as he lived his life. He allowed himself to be cared for - by the nurses in the hospital and later by my sister and I at home. He didn't rail against the constant indignities of malignant illness - the bed baths, diaper changes, constant discomfort, inability to do for himself beyond the bare minimum. He accepted this as a stage of his life without accepting that his demise was inevitable. He did his absolute best to stay with us as long as he could.
We buried him yesterday in the same cemetery that accepted my mother four years ago. His community was there in full force with barely a day's notice to make plans to attend his service. The fellowship he enjoyed was significant. I saw my father through new eyes once again. He never stopped surprising me even after his passing.
There were stories of the man who helped found the first masjid in Rock Hill. The man who was often the first to open the masjid in the morning and who never missed a prayer service if he was in town and able. The man who continued to make the round trip to Rock Hill several times a day even after he moved to live with me in Gastonia an hour away. The man who gave life lessons to other brothers in the community. The man who taught himself Arabic and became so proficient that he could lead others in prayer. The man who never quarreled with anyone and who would stand up and leave if others began to bad mouth someone in the community. The servant leader who demanded nothing and gave everything.
That's who my father was and who he will always be to me. Not just Dad or Pops Tops as I affectionately called him after a hat my brother gave him one Father's Day. Even though he's no longer with us - I will leave my bathroom light on each night so I can awake and remember that true strength does not come from our muscles - it emanates from our ability to commit ourselves fully to ideals that lead to positive impacts for us and those around us.
I am so grateful that you were my father! I love you Dad!
Samuel Harris 1946-2024
O Allah, forgive my father Samuel Harris and elevate his station among those who are guided. Send him along the path of those who came before, and forgive us and him, O Lord of the worlds. Enlarge for him his grave and shed light upon him in it.
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