Kevin Callahan: A Real Man Who Read, Lived, Laughed And Loved
'I thanked Kevin for standing with me for a season, for caring enough to travel all that way each week to read to our children, for his labor of love and sacrifice, and for his lessons on brotherhood'
“Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.” -John 15:13
By John W. Fountain
His name was Kevin Callahan. He was my brother.
Whatever dissimilarities between us—race, culture, politics, religious denomination or our favorite college football team—they were cosmetic and inconsequential, and none of them an impediment to true brotherhood.
It mattered not that Kevin is white and I am Black. That I am Protestant and he is Catholic. That we lived miles and worlds apart—Kevin in a mostly white Chicago northwest suburb, and me in a mostly Black south suburb. Or that our upbringings—Kevin’s in Connecticut and mine on Chicago’s impoverished West Side—couldn’t have been more diametrically opposed.
But brotherhood. True brotherhood—the ability of men to connect and build upon the intersection of our humanity mirrored in the faces of each other and to come together for the common good; the mutual desire to try and leave the world a better place than how we found it; to labor in selfless sacrifice, united in purpose and passion, with the understanding that we must endeavor to enter eternity having poured from our souls liberally so as to leave nothing behind in our earthen shells, except those scars endured by a good soldier.
Brotherhood—the ability of men of different races to come together even for the good of little Black children, to provide mentorship, paternal love and de facto fathering by the steadfast presence, even for a season, of a few good men—whether Black or brown or white. To lay down one’s life for the good of others.
Kevin Callahan taught me that before departing this earth just after midnight on Sunday, March 24. He was 72.
He is my brother.
‘Playing from His Soul’
A good Irish Catholic born in Patterson, New Jersey, Kevin Callahan wore his love for Notre Dame University, for Fighting Irish Football, Touchdown Jesus and all the seasonal pomp and circumstance of the blue and gold on his sleeve. Especially when the wind was nipping and the home crowd roaring on a late-fall Saturday in South Bend, Indiana.
Brother Kevin, as I affectionately called him, also had love for the bodhrán—the round frame drum used in Irish music. He took up playing the bodhrán later in life, eventually checking it off his bucket list. He mastered it well enough to play on an impromptu unofficial tour of pubs with friends late fall in November 2022 when he visited Ireland with his wife Catherine Galley—the true love of his life.
I can still see Kevin beating his bodhrán that December in 2018, just a few weeks before Christmas, his foot patting rhythmically to a friend’s traditional Irish music on banjo as Kevin played for friends and family at a party in Chicago, marking their 33rd wedding anniversary. His face was emotionless, awash solely with purpose, intent and heart—as if playing from his soul.
That was more than five years ago.
Today I am tasked with writing about my dear friend and brother who asked me—upon giving me a large collection of children’s books to deliver to the school and children he loves—if I would give his eulogy.
I eulogized my mother. And my father. Why would I not do the same to honor the request of my brother? I told him that I would. He did not seem surprised. I owed him at least that much. Kevin gave me—us—so much more.
Kevin is my brother from another mother. He called me Brother John. We met sometime in 2012. At least we began correspondence after Kevin began reading my weekly column in the Chicago Sun-Times, which I had begun writing two years earlier. He dropped me a line by email ever so often, commenting on a column about my “bucket list.” He sent another note after a piece about my mom’s bout with Alzheimer’s. Another after a column on a reading program I was just starting at south suburban Matteson Elementary School near where I lived. I wrote, in December 2015:
“Wanted: A few good men. No airline ticket necessary. No need to secure hotel accommodations. And absolutely no need to travel hundreds of miles or pack a meal for the journey ahead.
Not another Million Man March. Not another “Black Lives Matter” protest. No celebrities. No VIP section. No “big I” and “little you.” No grandstanding. Only like-minded men wanted in this struggle. Men seeking to make a difference on the home front.
No frills. No hype. No rhetoric or long-winded self-serving speeches. Only commitment to fostering a revolution within the African-American community, which groans for change. For the sake of the children, for the sake of our future.
In response, Kevin wrote a simple note:
“Dear John, Kevin Callahan here; we corresponded briefly after your Mom passed. I read your column today, and I would like to try volunteer to teach the children in Matteson. Earlier in my life, I taught languages to high school students, and I think the old skills are still there.
I know that you teach on Thursday's, but I am wondering at what time? I live in Arlington Heights, so it is a bit more than an hour to get there. Since I own the business, I determine my own schedule, and I would like to see if I can work it out. Please let me know!
Best regards,
Kevin”
‘Steady Like A Rock’
Kevin soon joined us at Matteson on Thursdays for Real Men Read. In fact, he became a regular, one in a core of about 12 men who could be counted on every Thursday. Kevin and Richard Siska, another of the men who answered the call and who died in January 2021, embodied the heart and soul of the program.
Their presence, steady like a rock, encouraged me in those times when I found myself on the verge of washing my hands of the program, disheartened by the absence largely of men from my own community—a community with no dearth of Black men at surrounding megachurches and from various walks of life.
No matter how much we advertised or sought to inform others about Real Men Read—which involved reading for less than a half hour to students on Thursdays, over the course of the first six years or so, we saw less than a total of five fathers of children attending the school of more than 400 children.
But the core group, Kevin among them, never failed, remaining faithful even during school shutdowns caused by COVID, showing up to record Real Men Read sessions for students and teachers to access online. When classes resumed, though still closed to outsiders, Kevin continued reading with Mrs. Black’s class electronically.
During our usual Thursday gatherings, begun now nine years ago, we assembled in a classroom until after the bell had rung and the Pledge of Allegiance and Matteson student pledge had been recited. Then we marched to classrooms, sometimes greeted in the hallways by the children as if we were rockstars. We came to give, but we received so much more.
We read on those mornings—from fall to winter to spring—to the laughter, applause and hugs of students. We answered their questions about how old we were. Chuckled when some kids remarked that some among us looked to be 100, or if we were old enough to have been around during the time of slavery. Most of all, we kept coming—amid sickness and disease. Amid our own losses and the busyness of life and demands on our schedules saturated with life, our own families and unforeseen circumstance. Despite heart attacks, cancer, chemo and radiation...
It was seven years ago that Kevin was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. He had to take time off from reading from time to time during treatment, but vowed to come back. He beat cancer. And he returned, always faithful.
But cancerous tumors eventually returned. Kevin promised to come back to our Thursday reading when he got better again. We all looked forward to his return…
No one’s journey was longer than Kevin’s. He traveled each Thursday about 60 miles each way—120 miles each week. By my estimation: about 480 miles a month; roughly 3,360 miles each school year.
I marveled at Brother Kevin’s commitment and came to know him better over countless casual conversations, notes and emails as men—about life, love, humanity and purpose. Kevin’s mantra was simple: Not “Why me?” But “Why not me?”
It mattered not that the children to whom he dedicated himself to read each Thursday were African American. He saw them as his own and my community as his, and the issues and problems that confront all of humanity as an opportunity to become part of the solution.
The expressions of his heart were pure. He spoke of his desire to be the difference he wanted to see. And he locked arms with me and other men for a season that has indelibly impacted so many others graced by his life and love.
Kevin gave liberally to others without regret. Loved without dissimulation. He walked the walk. Talked the talk. Poured upon others the compassion of Christ from his mortal soul.
‘Always My Brother’
On the last day we spoke during my visit to his home, as Kevin sat clear-eyed and comforted by a blanket and his wife Catherine, he told me apologetically, “Brother John, I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to make it back to reading…” He also said that he probably would not be seeing me again. I told him that although I won’t be seeing him anymore on Thursdays that my eternal faith and hope is that I would see him again. Someday. In heaven.
I told him that I loved him. And I told him that I likely would not be returning to the program. That the loss of him and Rick Siska signaled for me the end of a season and that essentially the time has now come for me to move on.
And while fighting back tears, I thanked Kevin for standing with me in purpose for a season, for caring enough to travel all that way each week to read to our children, for his labor of love and self-sacrifice, for lessons he has taught me about brotherhood. And I thanked him, most of all, for simply being my brother.
His name is Kevin Callahan. And he will always be my brother.
A memorial funeral mass for Kevin R. Callahan will be held at 10 a.m. Saturday, April 27, at St. James Catholic Church, 820 North Arlington Heights Road, Arlington Heights, Illinois.
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Email: Author@Johnwfountain.com
