“We need a little good trouble, don’t we?” Alan would say, his tall frame casting a shadow and that familiar twinkle in his eye. Farid Alan Schintzius passed away last Thursday, and I’ve been reflecting on the loss of someone I deeply admired. A true master of “good trouble,” he pulled me into plenty over the years, and I’m better for it. Despite his health challenges in recent years, Alan never stopped moving forward living with conviction and holding onto principles that feel rare these days.
I first met Alan not long after college, when I was searching for direction and a way to connect with my community. He was already a seasoned activist and had just opened Fusion Cafe and Gathering Place (FCGP), which later became The Camel. He described it as “a social oasis for the community.” At the time, it was a raw, open space, no stage, just a hole in the wall serving food. Activists and intellectuals, young and old, gathered there, debating ideas I’d only encountered in books not assigned in school: new-age spirituality, the dysfunction of local government, and visions for a better Richmond.
Alan stood out, as he always did. His long, trademark beard, his towering presence, and his guru-like aura gave him the air of a leader, though where we were headed wasn’t always clear. At first, I was skeptical. But the energy in that room, the grassroots spirit of doing things yourself and bringing people together changed me. That bedrock idea still runs through my veins today, and Alan was a big part of that.
Around the same time, WRIR 97.3 FM launched just above The Camel as a community supported independent media. Alan was there working with his small but mighty pool of helpers to create signs (he loved his signs), fill out paperwork, and gather small donations. The station’s success felt like a miracle, a testament to what’s possible when a determined group of people comes together to make something real for the community.
That moment inspired me to create this magazine twenty years ago.
Years later, Alan pulled me into the No Casino Campaign, spearheaded by another ‘good trouble’ local Paul Goldman, where he asked for my help defeating a multi-million-dollar push and we only had 30 days before the vote. We had no money, no resources, and honestly, no business winning. But Alan believed we could do it, and his belief was contagious. And guess what? We won.
And we did it again last year. One of my favorite moments was when the No Casino sign flew over the Richmond Folk Festival. It was such a small act, but it felt enormous. Later, The Valentine took that very sign in for display, and Alan and I couldn’t stop laughing about it. It was classic Alan: a quiet triumph of a few people against a media mogul.
This year, he called me again, this time about saving the Richmond Community Hospital. He and Viola Baskerville were determined to preserve that space, and Alan was already in motion. They were forming a committee, gathering volunteers, and, of course, making signs. He asked me to document the process, and I joined in.
The last time we spoke, Alan thanked me for my recent article on the hospital after their victory in preserving the building from developers. He mentioned we’d talk soon about the next steps. I had planned to sit down with him for a longer interview to capture more of his story, but when I heard of his passing, it felt like the wind had been knocked from my sails.
Alan, Viola, and Paul have shown me time and again that the torch of community activism has to be carried forward. Not the kind of activism that wants to burn everything down, but the kind that builds people and ideas up.
Alan believed in doing. In taking that small spark and turning it into a flame that could light the way for others. His work, his conviction, and his spirit will live on in all of us who knew him.
Thank you, Alan. You showed us what’s possible when a few determined people come together for something bigger than themselves. You were a good man, and I will miss you.
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