When I first met Louis Andrews—it must have been about 1995—he did not make much of an impression on me. He seemed a good enough fellow, perhaps, but nothing extraordinary. Maybe I was expecting more because I had heard that Louis was one of the pillars of our movement, but I remember sitting across from him, looking at that Mennonite beard of his, and wondering just what it was that inspired such admiration. I am ashamed to say that it took me some time to find out.
Louis and I worked together on various projects, and my eyes began to open. I noticed that when there was an urgent but unpleasant job that had to be done, chances are Louis would volunteer for it. I noticed that Louis was always generous in giving credit to others for their work, and modest in claiming credit for himself.
I kept discovering things Louis knew how to do—and do well: He could program, he could edit, he could lay out publications, he could organize a first-rate conference—and he could dress and cook a squirrel. And you never knew what surprising facts he would loose on you from his vast store of knowledge and learning.
Usually as you get to know people, you discover shortcomings along with strengths. In Louis’ case, everything I learned as the years went by was positive. Louis was reliable, cheerful, generous, and always dedicated to the good of our people.
Louis learned early about the reality of race, and never wavered from the conviction that he was called to serve. And yet, he never reproached those who came late to the struggle or were not as committed as he was. He was always willing to share his insights and experiences with newcomers, and always grateful and encouraging when others did even just a little.
Louis had a remarkable tolerance for the failings and delusions of others, and I believe this stemmed from his fundamentally generous outlook. I never heard him speak bitterly about either the failings of his allies or the perfidy of his opponents. He was always positive, always cheerful, always expecting the best.
And I will certainly never forget the courage and dignity with which Louis met his end. I am sure I could not have faced his ordeal of countless surgeries, endless treatments, and constant pain without dissolving into self pity. Louis must have been afraid, must have raged against a disease that took him well before his time, but I never saw it. To the end, he was himself: calm, curious about the world around him, committed to causes to which he worked so hard and so faithfully.
As much as anyone in our time, Louis can claim a long list of impressive accomplishments, and I admire him greatly for them. But in the end, I admire Louis most simply for the way he was: His steadfastness, his devotion, his generosity, his good heartedness, and his wide-ranging abilities were a unique combination we are not likely ever to see again.
Good bye, Louis. It was an honor to know you and to call you my friend.
Jared Taylor is the editor of American Renaissance and the author of White Identity.