The Persistent Idealist

In days to come, countless Atlantans and Georgians will share their memories of Harry West (1941-2014). These are mine.

When you put an idealist in with a bunch of prosaic or formulaic thinkers, it's the idealist who inevitably takes a beating. Why? Because his vision is more imaginative, reaches for more, and involves a deeper investment of hope.

Harry West passed away yesterday morning (7/14/14). Back in the 90s, he'd worked so hard on an Atlanta metro region initiative called Vision 2020 that now, so near its threshold, my first reaction was to wish he could be around to see the year 2020 roll up.

"Don't let go of what you believe in"

He had a great deal of persistence — I'm talking superhuman levels. By his early 30s, he'd reached the top of his profession: his job as director of the Atlanta Regional Commission often looked to me about as much fun as cat-herding: a great many people were committed and enthused, eager to help the Region, but some of the cats were also lazy, complacent or ineffectual; and there were a few whom my daughter's generation would describe as outright "haters" — corrupt, self-serving people who'd rather put energy into smashing down someone else's efforts rather than lead, follow, or get out of the way. Harry seemed to bear it all with typical resilience, once telling me, "Do your thing while others do theirs, but don't let go of what you believe in."

In the years I served on a couple of his committees, I watched some of these regional movers and shakers pluck off low-hanging fruit, after which they'd spend a great deal of time slapping each other's backs. To sustain a vision of enormous scope and depth during such bouts of self-congratulation had to have felt absurd or crazymaking, but ... he must've fixed his gaze on that distant prize, those faraway shores. Once when I was burning at the edges over petty baloney from a detractor, he said, "I know you're fed up, but just remember, it takes everyone to make the world go 'round." I've never forgotten that one because it's been the hardest to learn.

Friends and solutions — and listening

More than anyone else I've ever met, Harry had thousands of friends, not just in Atlanta but all over the country — governors, city mayors, politicians, local celebs, journalists, nonprofit directors, foundation presidents, corporate leaders, and grassroots activists and volunteers. The latter group alone was incredibly diverse. Inevitably, no matter where he was, someone would walk up and introduce themselves, remind him of where and how they'd met, and each of them were from very different walks of life and world views.

He never stood on pomp or circumstance (I once left a meeting with him and as I was heading out, then-mayor Bill Campbell was strolling in)....If you had an idea, a vision for aiding the greater good, he would find ways to support your efforts. When I met him I was in my 30s, fresh out of a divorce with a small child, and all I knew was that if child care was a formidable concern for me in the English-speaking middle class, then refugee/immigrant parents in Atlanta's DeKalb county urgently needed safe, affordable child care solutions, just to survive. He saw a civic imperative in this, which meant a great deal to me.

He was also a very good listener. Deep in conversation, he'd lower his head, his chin would sink into his chest, and you might be wondering if he'd dozed off — until he responded with something that not only perfectly encapsulated everything I'd said but asked an astute question to help advance the ideas behind it. "As you get to know me," he said once, "you'll find I like to listen better than to talk." There's wisdom in that.

Plenty of people will step up to tell you why a thing can't be done, but he was one of those who looked for solutions in everything. As a younger man, he must've realized that durable civic improvements are not made in great glorious strides, but in inconspicuous, painstaking increments, each requiring tremendous patience. And perseverance.

Because I did not move in his world, he knew my humor tended to dry and irreverent when observing it, and we shared a few "inside" jokes. Many times someone would say or do something in a meeting that would set me off, and I'd wind up biting my lip to keep from laughing out loud. Then I'd glance over at Harry, sitting in one of the staff chairs of the conference room, and find that he was already anticipating my glance, a broad grin splitting across his face, and when I crossed my eyes or made a face in exasperation, his shoulders would begin shaking with silent laughter.

Thinking beyond

He enjoyed gardening and reading. Given the amount of work-related reading he had to do, he said the last 30 minutes of his day were devoted to something he wanted to read for personal pleasure. When I finished writing my first book, I told him, "The impossible thing has been done!" and he was very kind: "You have finished a book!" he repeated.

Finally, this: as a kid growing up in Calhoun, GA, he said he liked listening to the town's leaders talking about "what was going on." The fire chief, police chief, mayor, and bank president, standing near the firehouse, talking things over: What had caused that pot-hole on a nearby street, and how should it be fixed? ... How would weather affect nearby farm crops? ... Who was mad at his neighbor, and why? ... I'm guessing he realized the dark and humorous fullness of life through listening in on those conversations.

I loved the generosity of his ideas, and feel sad there had not been an opportunity to say a proper farewell. Knowing him taught me the value of persistence — more than that, I tend to value idealists far more, especially among the young. Their visions should not be trampled. The world is filled with people who worship practicality, usually as an excuse to do nothing. They look no further than the easy, low-hanging fruit, but people like Harry think about the world beyond the orchard. If it takes everyone to make the world go 'round, more than ever we need idealists and visionaries who can tell us that our most fantastic dreams are entirely possible.

Good bye, Harry. I will miss you.