Bob Samuels, 74, died recently. His death has been appropriately–as in prominently–noted in the local media. Permit me a personal touch.
Over the years I had run into Bob at political events and luncheons. On occasion, he was the featured speaker–in his capacity as the founder of the Florida Prostate Cancer Network, the National Prostate Cancer Coalition and the African American Men’s Health Forum. To say he was an outspoken, passionate activist and unrelenting change agent would be to understate his commitment.
About a year ago, I agreed to help Bob in the early editing of a draft that would become his memoir: Don’t Tell Me I Can’t. The upshot: Wow, Bob, I never knew.
I knew he was a retiree whose personal health issues had morphed him into a crusading educator on the risks and prevention of prostate cancer. And I knew he was from my hometown of Philadelphia. And I knew he was a helluva nice guy. That was about it.
Now I can see Denzel Washington playing Bob Samuels in the movie adaptation of Don’t Tell Me I Can’t. I really can.
Bob survived a tough North Philly neighborhood, the kind that used to be referred to as a “ghetto.” His mom was an unwed teen. He served four years in the Air Force and combated vestiges of institutional racism. He carved out a pioneering career in banking, notably commercial lending, when such professional pursuits were virtually unheard of for blacks. He fought the perception of token as well as the reality of red-lined neighborhoods.
Along the way he became the first black loan officer at First Pennsylvania Bank, vice president of Manufacturers Hanover, a visiting professor and lecturer for the National Urban League, the founding president of the National Association of Urban Bankers and a Wall Street player. He retired in 1992 as vice president of Global Financial Institutions Group. He’s in Philadelphia’s Black Hall of Fame, and his likeness can be found in Baltimore’s Great Blacks in Wax Museum.
But Bob also gave new meaning to “bankers’ hours.” Helping the less fortunate and pushing racial envelopes during the day, raising the bar on hedonism at night.
He was known as a burning-the-candle-at-both ends party animal, living large from Fire Island to Rio de Janeiro. He was frequently photographed, adult beverage in hand, in the context of celebrities such as Lou Rawls and Whoopie Goldberg. To say he was no saint would be to grossly understate his disco-closing, womanizing lifestyle.
And yet, I can’t help thinking that the combination of professional commitment, networking/organizing skills and libido-indulging lifestyle uniquely prepared him for the most important chapter of his life: his prostate-cancer awareness crusade.
Bob could relate to people. All kinds of people, all kinds of lifestyles. He could motivate without preaching or judging. His bully pulpit was complemented by a sense of humor as well as a sense of urgency. He was tireless in the constant pursuit of his cause, always finding time to counsel a person in need.
Bob Samuels, alas, is gone and will be missed, but his legacy includes a lot of men who are still here.