I have been asked to speak on behalf of the history department at the College of Staten Island, to offer some of our collective memories of our colleague and friend, François.

(It's worth pointing out that he would have hated the very idea of such a thing. Despite his natural charisma, he did not crave the spotlight and shied away from being the center of attention).

But I suspect that, like most of you, while our department has struggled to come to terms with our sudden loss, we have spent much of the week trying to prop each other up by recalling the best of the times we have spent with François.

We could, of course, spend a week or more telling stories and recounting all of François's wonderful qualities -- but I will try not to go on too long, and limit myself to some of the essentials as we were lucky enough to experience them at the College.

First, for those of us who knew him as a scholar, it is maybe easiest to remember François as a man who possessed incredible intellectual gifts and brought them to bear not only on important scholarly issues but also on his teaching. As our department chairman, Howard Weiner, reminded us yesterday, François was a man who lived and breathed what he wrote about and what he taught.

Delivered into this world by Dr. Albert Schweitzer, he grew up in Gabon, was educated in France, and built a career in New York:
He was uniquely qualified to teach global history, don't you think?

And he built a reputation in the city and beyond as an intellectual star, committed to radical scholarship that fundamentally changed the way historians and other scholars looked at the world -- (i.e., not only Africa).

But even more casually, as we knew him, on a day-to-day basis, François reveled in the life of the mind.

He devoured books and articles not only on subjects related to his work, but on other wide-ranging topics. His office is an obstacle course of stacks -- books and papers that only the most capacious mind could absorb.

And when he took a break from his own work -- which was rare -- he delighted in New York's museums and cultural institutions.

And I daresay that the one thing he liked to watch on television -- soccer (especially during the World Cup) he saw as an intellectual and artistic prize to be cherished. (I was working on him with baseball).

That broad intellectual grounding branched off into several other facets of his personality: that of hallway philosopher, comic, and colleague.

François, more than any of us, claimed not only his office but also the hallway as his extended territory.

If you were to stand in our corridor, always, day and night, during the semester or breaks, you could count on hearing National Public Radio blaring from his office. (This only subsided for passionate discussions between François and his students in English or French). Sometimes, both of our office doors would be closed (my office is across the hall) and I could still hear that radio.

In the volatile political times in which we live, the radio did not often bring news François liked and we knew this because we would often hear a loud "Awwwww.....Unbelievable!" from behind the door followed by François bounding out of the office to tell anyone nearby about the outrage of the day. This inevitably included, after explaining something ridiculous or appalling he had heard, an exclamation of "Oh, please!"

By contrast, on those few occasions when he heard something he liked, usually a witty retort or some political misdeed exposed, there would be this rolling series of laughs -- like chimes from a bell tower -- followed by the same familiar opening of the door and a burst of conversation.

I will miss those conversations, standing in the corridor, solving the problems of the world: not only for the intellectual give and take, but for the experience of seeing François, literally in action.

The sheer physicality of the way he expressed himself in these discussions, so animated (with hands and arms flying), so enthusiastic, but always respectful of all views -- this is one of the things we will remember most, I think. In these discussions, as you spoke, he seemed to hang on your every word, never averting his gaze (and often looking over his glasses). And when you made a good point, he rewarded you with an "Absolutely!" and slapped his hands together.

It's clear, too, that that physicality extended to the classroom where he paced back and forth, swirling arms like windmills, touching the maps and especially the chalkboard -- so much so that when we would see him return to his office, it was as though he'd emerged from battle, only he was splattered in chalk dust: it would be all over his crisp suit, his hands, face, and hair.

If you pointed this out to him, he would laugh and sort of shake his head, like he didn't know how it happened.

It's that laugh, too, that lingers with us, right?

That big, bright smile, followed by that utterly musical laugh. Jazz musicians, I am convinced, spend a lifetime trying to come up with something as original as that laugh. But François always had it, and put it to good use as one of the best comics in the department.

Recently, following the last presidential election (which you no doubt know did NOT go the way François wanted it to), Rich Lufrano and I were standing in the department dissecting it when François bounded out of his office, dressed impeccably (as always), only, uncharacteristically, he had on a bow tie. And when Rich and I looked at him a little quizzically, he burst, "Look! I am a Republican! Ah-ha, ha, ha."

On another occasion, when Rich Lufrano and Dick Powers saw François on campus, he was wearing a new cap (like an English driving cap or golf cap).
      Dick: Oh, François, do you play golf?
      François: Oh, no, no: too bourgeious.
It was a reasonable question, though. François was the best dressed Marxist I've ever met. (American Marxists, you know, go out of their way to look disheveled).

And Cathy Lavender likes to tell the story of when François and others from the department went to Seattle for a conference. During a break from interviewing job candidates, Cathy, François, and Warrick (Cathy's husband) went to the Seattle Aquarium where they had a special exhibition on exotic African fish. As they moved through the exhibit, looking at the tanks amid hushed tones usually reserved for art museums, François looked intently at the fish, and pointed to one apparently rare species and said, "you know, that one tastes very good in a butter sauce." (The staff did not find this amusing).

He could also be hilarious without intending it, but in an endearing way, such as the one time I made the mistake of showing up in the office one summer day without a beard. We spoke for a few minutes, and I could see the puzzled look on his face, before he said, "so, what has happened, my friend? You have suddenly put on a lot of weight?" I said, "no, I just don't have a beard hiding my weight anymore." He felt a little bad, but the next week, when the beard had started to come back in, he said, "ah, yes, that looks much better."

And likewise, the time he told Cathy just because she's a feminist didn't mean she couldn't wear make-up. In France, he said, all the feminists are comfortable wearing make-up; you know, it doesn't affect their politics.

These last two stories, while funny, came from his genuine concern for us as colleagues and friends. He wanted the best for us. He was completely selfless.

In every way, as a colleague, this was the way he operated. As the first professor hired in our department after a 20 year hiring freeze, he took it upon himself to welcome all of us who came after him, to take us under his wing and help us negotiate our way through the otherwise daunting CUNYverse. He pushed us, gently, to work steadily on our research, and he ran interference for us, taking committee assignments and other administrative jobs, so we wouldn't have to (and even though it slowed the progress he made on his own research and writing).

Recently, he and I openly disagreed for, I think, the first time in a department meeting. I thought he was wrong; he thought I was wrong; and I felt terrible. After the weekend passed, and when I next saw him in the department, I told him I wanted to be sure that there were no hard feelings (academics have been known to hold grudges for 30 or 40 years). He laughed and hugged me -- a big hug. "We will never be like that" he said.

That compassionate, loving side is what I will cling to. In particular, I will cling to my memories of François as a devoted, loving husband, as a father to two beautiful children, and as my dear friend.

These three are all connected for me. When I came to CSI, François and I had both just come through a similar experience through which we had become long-distance fathers. Our friendship deepened as we spent many hours discussing the challenges of balancing work and family life. He worked so hard to support his family, and although the circumstances were sometimes difficult, and he sometimes worked himself to the point of exhaustion, he never complained. Instead our discussions focused on the children. When I would ask about Tristane and Malina, that trademark smile would light up -- he was so proud of them. And nothing pleased him as much as visiting with his kids or having them visit him. Whenever I struggled with my own situation, François's example never failed to inspire me. It was a gift for me to meet him when I did.

Finally, all of us in the department (and, I'm sure, most of you here), will most remember François as our friend and more -- as our brother. When we left the hospital on Sunday, I told my wife that "François is the best friend I have in the department; I can't imagine life without him." On Monday, when I went into the office, though, I realized that that was true for many people; there are a number of us who could make that claim. How many people can you say that about?

It was the way he made each of us feel, that we not only had a best friend, but, really, a brother. He would invite you -- literally -- he would ask you to unload your burden on him, but rarely allowed us to return the favor. When he did let down his guard, on few occasions, and let on that he was exasperated or worried or struggling in any way, he wouldn't let us take it on like he would for us.

He would, instead, stand, looking at the ground, rubbing his hand over his head (I can't do it the same because we have different hair styles). And he would shake his head, and just say, "Ah......Life" as if to say, "Ah, what can we do? It's all a mystery...."

But as we have talked all week, one of the most persistent memories for all of us is one that best conveys his gift for making us feel comfortable, like family, like we were his brothers and sisters -- it is the way he would end conversations. He would shake your hand, or hold your hand, smile, and direct his gaze straight into your eyes, and say "OK, my friend. We speak." It was the same for everyone. And it made us all one in some communal, family kind of way. (I know this seems trite, to say that co-workers make up a family, but it's the only way I can describe it, and, more important, it was pure François -- he really made us feel this way).

And that parting comment also told us there would be more. "We speak": We would speak again. It was hopeful.

So, François, Mon Ami, I say to you, on behalf of your brothers and sisters at CSI, and, if I may, on behalf of everyone here: OK, my friend. We speak.

Thank you.