A Tribute to Dr. Osiefield Anderson
Dr. Osiefield Anderson, photo Alice Devine, Tallahassee Democrat, 2021
I knew of Dr. Osiefield Anderson long before I ever met him. He was my mother’s best friend in college, and her admiration for him was unwavering. She spoke of his brilliance often—how he could make numbers sing, how his mind moved with precision and grace. I heard Anderson’s name in my household so much that I thought he was a member of the family. Mom constantly would say, “Anderson did this, and Anderson said that.”
As a first-year college student, she struggled to learn her math coursework. Anderson came to the rescue and taught her how to solve the mathematical equations. When she would have to choose whether to go to work on Sundays at a local steakhouse and miss mandatory vestibule service, Anderson would tell the proctor that she had stepped out to the restroom and would be right back. They were very good friends.
In 1950, life pulled them in different directions. But in 1995, at Fort Valley State University’s centennial celebration, they reunited. And through that reunion, I found my way to him.
Having grown up with stories of his intellect and character, I reached out. What began as a gesture of curiosity quickly became a mentorship that shaped my journey. Dr. Anderson welcomed my calls with the same generosity he extended to generations of students at Florida A&M University, where he taught mathematics for over five decades.
- Chairman of FAMU’s Department of Mathematics for 28 years
- Author of 34 books spanning academic and motivational themes
- Decorated Army veteran, recently honored with a Quilt of Valor
- First person from Wilcox County, Georgia, to earn both a master’s and doctoral degree
His impact was profound and personal. For me, he was a bridge between my mother’s youth and my adulthood, between the rhythms of memory and the rigor of scholarship. His mentorship helped me refine my voice as a storyteller, grounding my work in legacy and truth. When I published my first book, Paper Puzzle, and dedicated it “To my mother and grandmother,” he scolded me for not calling them by their names (Maggie Elaine and Puella).
Knowing that I loved baseball and wanted to play baseball professionally in my youth, he told me this parable:
“Good baseball hitters improve their batting skills by learning not to be afraid of striking out. And batters who are afraid of striking out are rarely, if ever, good batters.” There is a life lesson about confidence in there and a baseball lesson I could have used when trying to hit a 3-2 slider during my college days.
In the early 2000s, my mom’s granddaughter, Marcia Harvey, a student at FAMU, struggled with a course in statistics, so her grandmother sent her in search of Dr. Anderson. Like he had done fifty years before, Anderson tutored my mom’s granddaughter.
Dr. Anderson passed on August 10, 2025, at age 97. I called my mom, a few months younger than Anderson, and gave her the news. She said, “My, my, there are not many of us left.”
Reading the text message about Dr. Anderson’s transition transported me back to the early 1950s. I could hear mom’s voice ringing in my ear, “Anderson did this, and Anderson did that.”
Now his voice echoes for the ages—in the lives he touched, the books he wrote, and the stories we carry forward.