Robert Lee Allen was lovely to me. He was certainly the calmest revolutionary I ever met. My first association with The Black Scholar was publishing in it, an experience wholly started by Dr. Allen. After a traumatic, but ultimately successful QE experience, it was Robert that helped me find my confidence again. JFinley and I were his GSIs for 5B, and he asked us each to do a guest lecture based on our own work. Then he asked me to review one of his articles. Then he asked that I be invited to participate in the symposium for the 40th anniversary of his Black Awakening in Capitalist America. Just like that. Like I had something to say and was worthy of his time. And at that conference he made me feel intellectually at home and safe. He read his declassified FBI file as his keynote address noting it as an example of horrible research. He deftly deflected canonization accepting his admirers' respect, while drawing boundaries and carefully not taking credit for what wasn’t his, while wanting to hear more about what could have been. I learned about his life in Atlanta, how his first degree was in Mathematics and Physics and he still kept up with that field. I hadn’t know about his work as a social worker or how Blake’s Bar became his favorite. (He was reporting on the student strikes and got cracked in the head by the police, but was able to duck into Blake’s. It’s gone now. Telegraph Ave has changed.) But that was about the same moment that The Black Scholar was born, out of the protests that made out field possible in these spaces, and providing an outlet for professional and organic intellectuals to do the work of Black studies. The symposium resulted in a special issue of The Black Scholar which, I think, was my first academic publication. He made sure I knew I was intellectually worthy and provided space to let others know too.
It wasn’t only intellectual and emotional support he provided, but also material support. Robert Allen got me work. When I was broke as a joke he offered me the position of doing “Books Received” for The Black Scholar. He taught me how to use the promotional materials to do quick write-ups and manage my time according to the pay. He allowed me to take a book or to for free as long as I asked first and told me to let him know if I wanted to do a full review of any of them. And I did. He let me keep a copy of Paule Marshall’s Triangular Road and I reviewed it for The Black Scholar. That work later led to another article published as a special issue dedicated to Marshall’s work. He wasn’t my advisor, but through our work on The Black Scholar, in his own way, he taught me the field. Doing the “Books Received” page gave me access to literal boxes of new scholarship. And I learned how valuable opportunities like that are, whether in service to journals or serving on prize committees.
And the work kept coming. (I stayed broke.) When he and Charles Henry did an edited collection on Obama, I learned how to write an index. When I was late with it, he told me to calm down, these things happen. And again when he wrote his last book on C. L. Dellums and the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters I got the indexing gig and he paid me way more than we agreed. When I asked about it, he said to take it, that I had earned it.
Although I work in different areas than him, the work that Robert Allen did has been central to my growth as an intellectual. The growth that happened in the 40 years that Robert Allen was associated with The Black Scholar was phenomenal. I have taught its articles, used them in my research, and find myself eagerly awaiting the new scholarship it produces. The lessons behind the foundations of the journal are a consistent reminder of the function of Black studies, which Robert wrote “must be to create enemies of racism, enemies of oppression, enemies of exploitation.” His mentorship, his kindness, his intellectual veracity all served as a clear example of what this means.
He was the kind of mentor that moved with ease. He didn’t just teach us, he quietly showed us how. He was kind and real and he showed up for us—for us mentees, for his colleagues, for all of us who have wanted to change the world.
He’s gone home. I know we all do, but I wasn’t ready. I have to learn to mourn him now. I think the best way is to live his legacy.
With Love and Respect.