Harvey and Greatness Unseen

While reading the news on Sunday, I was struck between similarities between three unconnected things: the Hudson River, the Somali pirating incident, and a less-than-pleasant looking woman in Britain.

When Chesley "Sully" Sullenberger landed Flight 1549 gently in the Hudson River three months ago, the media quickly labeled him a hero, the savior of the passengers, and lavished him with praise. Although he certainly fits the bill, Sully himself refused to accept any credit. "I was just doing my job," he said.

This past week, Captain Richard Phillips, at the helm of the Maersk Line ship that was hijacked, gave himself up rather than let anything happen to his crew. Twice, with guns pointed at him, he dove into the water to escape, and was eventually freed. Again, he was celebrated around the country, and yet his first words were, "I'm just a small part in this. The real heroes of the story are the U.S. military.'"

In both cases, seemingly ordinary people did extraordinary things. Had there not been large media attention around these events, their selflessness would have passed on without a notice but to their family and friends.

In the midst of all this, I saw an article about Britain's Got Talent, a Simon Cowell-produced talent show in England. A 47-ear-old unemployed woman named Susan Boyle had gotten on stage to sing. Needless to say, Susan Boyle is not the most attractive woman on earth. People snickered and laughed as she stood on stage, and Simon, as is his wont, tried to get another bad performance over with.

Susan then stopped, smiled, and began to sing I Dreamed a Dream, which YouTube tells me is from Les Miserables. She brought the house down, moved most of the audience to tears, and was told by all three judges that they have never heard better. The clip is worth watching all the way through (2:52).

These three disparate events all seemed to convey the same thing to me - the triumph of the "ordinary." Three people, who quietly went about their day like anyone else, actually contained tremendous wonder inside of them that was released when the time was right.

I had intended to restart this blog sometime last weekend with a post about this idea, thinking it would be a good way to start writing again. Unfortunately, last night I was hit with a fourth, and tragic example.

Harvey Delaney had passed away.

I met Harvey in 2002, when I got involved in the Oneonta Student Association. Of anyone in the above list, Harvey was most like Susan Boyle. He had a somewhat gruff exterior, and when I was introduced to him, I can unequivocally say that I had the composition of a frightened 6-year-old girl.

Harvey had been advising the Student Association and CUAC (the campus programming board) for decades. He knew everything there was to know about campus events, how SUCO was run and the best places to grab food in Oneonta (ed. note - Ianelli's). He was a fountain of knowledge, and had been honored numerous times by NACA for his lifetime of service.

Harvey and I eventually got to know each other fairly well, and at his urging, I ran for President. He was the one who told me I won (15 minutes late, to drive me crazy), and it was his arms I jumped into when I heard the news.

Over the next several years, I spent almost an hour a day with him. Every single time I went up to his office, students were coming in and out, getting advice from him, getting signatures for forms, and joking around. He was literally the hub for every student activity at SUNY Oneonta.

No eulogy, or blog post, or letter could ever fully capture how many people and how many lives this man impacted. He advised the two largest organizations on campus for years, yet would bark at students who wanted his opinion on clubs, politics, anything - he always wanted us to think for ourselves. He helped grow young adults through the Leadership Institute, which is now 20+ years old. He was a tireless advocate for students. In fact, as a testament to this, after his retirement the College wanted a say in who the SA chose as its advisor, after decades of Harvey's loving wrath.

Harvey counseled me through relationships and breakups, good meetings and bad, 4 years of college and my growth as an adult. It is fitting that from Harvey's driveway, which sat on a hill, you could look out and see all of Otsego County, since he looked out for so many who lived below.

Just a few weeks ago, Harvey joined Facebook. When someone first joins, Facebook asks if you want to suggest any friends for them. Facebook obviously didn't know Harvey very well. Within minutes, his page filled up with well wishes from former student senators, CUAC members, friends, colleagues and family.

It was through Facebook that I learned of his passing. There is never a good time for someone to go, of course, but it was particularly unfortunate that Harvey would be taken when he was with the woman he loved, retired, and finally somewhere warm. It was somewhat unsettling to learn of the loss of someone close through Facebook, of all places, but this turned out to be a double edged sword. In the 24 hours since Harvey passed, hundreds of people have reached out to Mary Jo, the college, his friends, colleagues, and more.

Again, what a testament to the man that after not seeing so many of us for years, that his loss would be so profound for so many.

This is what makes Harvey a hero. He is Sully, he is Captain Phillips, he is Susan Boyle - just without CNN, without fanfare, without pirates. He is just an ordinary man that lived in a little house in a little town. This ordinary man, for far less money than we pay our bankers and our actors, touched the lives, directly or indirectly, of thousands and thousands of people. Whether it was working late to talk to someone who needed, fighting against his own interests to help students, or just taking you out for a beer to relax - he was there for you. Harvey didn't need a galvanizing event, nor did he get any fanfare, because every day that he lived his life as he did was an act of quiet heroism and selflessness.

At the aforementioned Leadership Institute, Harvey loved to bring a friend of his, Nancy Hunter Denney, to speak. She was a huge ball of energy and used to make everyone laugh. This is a photo of her and Harvey together, exactly as I remember him - slightly askew hair, surrounded by people, a genuine smile on his face.

The world lost a giant yesterday.

Harvey Delaney
5/9/41-4/13/09 RIP

UPDATE - HARVEY DELANEY MEMORIAL FUND
A fund has been set up in Harvey's honor by the College. Mary Jo has asked that everyone donate to this in lieu of flowers. In several weeks, she will be deciding how to use this money to best honor Harvey (scholarship, programming, etc.) In the meantime, you can donate in two ways:

ONLINE:
1) Click here: https://secure.imodules.com/s/885/login.aspx?sid=885&gid=1&pgid=359&cid=865
2) Type in your name, email, and donation amount
3) In the "Designations" boxes, type the full amount of your donation in the "Other" box
4) In the final box, type in Delaney Memorial Fund

MAIL:
SUNY Oneonta
308 Netzer Administration Building
Oneonta, NY 13820
Please make checks payable to "SUNY College at Oneonta Foundation"
On the check's memo line, write: Delaney Memorial Fund

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M’Bale and the Great Journey

M’bale is about 60 kilometers (you see what I did there?) south of Namalu. M’bale is the second largest city in Uganda by population, but it looks nothing like the developed areas of Kampala – it is essentially one big town. Edmund (our Controller) drove me up there, and we met up with George, who is our head of operations and whose father is the primary reason we have access to this land.

The market was filled with people buying and selling all kinds of food, mostly homegrown. Young boys would stand with identical bags of potatoes for sale and then argue with customers over whose were better. From our standpoint (feeding workers), the food can get expensive, but it is otherwise very cheap – a 100kg bag of rice that was up to my chest was $70-$80. Edmund told me that Uganda actually has a decent sized Indian population, and many of them sell at the M’bale market.

We drove all over town buying food, fuel and some supplies. Most merchants don’t want to provide receipts, primarily because then they have evidence of a sale that they would likely have to pay taxes on. To solve this, our accounting team has had to create their own receipt book that they bring everywhere, and then chase shop owners all over the place to sign.

The town sits at the base of Wanale Hill (a mountain), and feels like a cross between Denver, the old west, and Manhattan circa Gangs of New York. After spending 3 hours getting to M’bale, and another 3 making purchases, we grabbed lunch at a casual restaurant. I asked to wash my hands, and was directed to a sink in a back alley with a communal bar of soap. I declined, thinking that would almost certainly make my hands dirtier. George was fasting for Ramadan, but Edmund was there, and kept asking me if I wanted to try his Irish. While I thought this was either an extremely uncomfortable request or that he knew Matt Kurz, it turns out that’s what they call their potatoes, which I find hilarious.

Edmund then left, and I was now in George’s hands for the first time as we headed to Namalu. It was 3:45 PM. Namalu is 60 km away. This will be important shortly. George, a driver and I all shared the front of a pickup, with 5 workers in the back. George mentioned that we should take a shortcut, because we had people in the back and we should avoid getting a ticket ($25) at a police checkpoint.

Shortcut, as a general rule, implies going slightly out of one’s way, perhaps utilizing a different road. Where we went lacked roads completely, so this wasn’t possible. While this picture to the left appears to be someone’s yard, it is actually where we were driving. Once we got out of the bumpiest trail I’ve ever been on (Note: that statement lasted approximately 2 hours), we got back on a road and had some more Oneonta-esque views, along with one event that would probably never happen on the way to school.


We stopped for some extra flour at a trading post (?!) , and a bunch of children ran over to our truck and started giggling uncontrollably at…me. One little boy was walking around selling sugar cane stalks so I bought them for the workers, which seemed to be a big hit. We then headed on a dirt road towards a mountain in the distance, which George said was near the farm.

The problem with flat land is that distance is very misleading. I say that, because after driving another 3 hours, we were still apparently not any closer to the hill. Again, I would like to point out that this is a 45 mile trip. We drove, and drove, and lightning started, and we drove some more, and we still seemed to be no closer.

The one cool thing was the sunset – the land on either side is savannah and dotted with trees, so it had a very Africa feel to it. The pictures don’t do it justice but this was the first time I really felt away from everyone. It didn’t hurt that for 3 consecutive hours of driving, we hadn’t seen a single person or structure.



Anyway, after literally 7 hours, we arrived at Namalu and it was pitch black. It’s a town of 20,000 but looked like nothing was there because they don’t have electricity, despite the size. This is one of the things we want to help change.

A Lt. Colonel in the Ugandan military shook my hand and welcomed us to the farm, which was a little odd. They help guard the fields, but when you really (really) have to go to the bathroom, an AK-47 is the last thing you need. We then got a tractor escort.

It had rained the night before, and not all the roads to the farm have been properly graded, so it’s about half quicksand and mud. This may be hard to believe for people who know me well, but our truck got stuck in a ditch. A big ditch. When we tried to get out, the truck slid on its side at about 30 mph, and I almost went flying out the window. This story sounds very familiar.

At one point, we hit a huge bump and 2 minutes later the driver started hysterically laughing. When I asked why, George told me two of the people in the back went flying off the truck into the mud. Fortunately, no one was hurt, but this adventure was the first time I thought the wedding speech was in danger of not happening.

Four assists later, we made it to the farm, and the living quarters. I’m tired so I’ll save the description for Wednesday’s post, but let me just say now - if your drinks don’t come from a hole in the ground or a goat, you’re not roughing it.
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