I lie on my stomach and kick my feet happily as I wait for my favorite person to appear.
Mr. Rogers.
He moves with slow easy grace.
He smiles easily.
His voice is kind and patient and understanding.
He welcomes me.
I know this house, this room, these items . . . intimately.
I know this man’s routines.
Nothing ever changes.
I love that nothing ever changes.
I love the monotony of this man.
The serenity.
The peace.
The gentleness.
He speaks to me as though I am worthy of being included in the conversation. He asks my opinion, and I am eager to share my thoughts. I want him to know that I appreciate his belief in me, and I want to assure him that this belief is well-founded.
He does not condescend to me when he speaks. I am too young to know the word “condescension,” but I know what it is to be spoken to in a condescending manner. This man speaks to me with love and kindness, and I know that he is genuine. He cares about me.
He talks to me.
He talks to me, but it sometimes feels as though he is talking for me.
He voices my wishes for a world different than the one in which I live.
He talks of a world where children are protected and loved and cherished. Where children are safe because the ones to whom they have been entrusted make sure they are safe. Where all of the troubles in a child’s life might be solved by simply asking for help.
A world where that help will be given.
I want to hold this man’s hand as we wait for the light to turn green.
Because with this man I feel safe.
With this man I feel protected.
I trust this man.
Mr. Rogers.
Sigh.
When Mr. Rogers died in 2003, I was overwhelmed with sadness.
When my father died a few years after that, I was overwhelmed by nothing but relief.
Really.
I once watched Mr. Rogers accept an Emmy Award, and in his acceptance speech, he asked that the audience observe ten seconds of silence.
He said, “All of us have special people who have loved us into being.”
Ten seconds of silence, he said, to honor the people who have loved us into being.
And then he stood there silently for ten seconds.
In my ten seconds?
I did not once think of my father.
I thought instead of little-girl me on her stomach before the television.
How she wanted to hold Mr. Rogers’ hand.
How she loved Mr. Rogers and believed he loved her.
And so in my ten seconds?
With tears in my eyes, I honored Mr. Rogers.
One of the people who loved me into being.
And if I were to take another ten seconds right this moment?
Mr. Rogers would still be in my thoughts.
Yes.
Yesterday, I visited a very funny post written by Kelley of Kelley’s Break Room. She wrote about her own take on Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood, and some of the things that troubled her as a child about his show. It was a funny post.
I went to comment, but first I scrolled through the comments left by others.
And weirdly? I started feeling all protective of Mr. Rogers and his show.
STOP MOCKING HIM!
The comment I left was a little vulnerable . . .
So I am late to this party, but I never let that stop me from going on and on.
I adored Mr. Rogers as a child.
I adored him for one thing . . . his serenity.
The smooth, easy, relaxed approach he took to everything. The rituals . . . Oh my god, I loved the rituals of that show. His shoes, his sweater, his songs. I loved every predictable boring part of that show.
My life as a child was manic and frenzied and filled with emotions that were too big and too loud and too scary.
Mr. Rogers was like a god to me.
A smallish serene god.
I would watch that show and I would just sink into it.
I adored that man.
I so did.
Everything you say in this post is true, but I have nothing but fond memories of that show.
Happy sighs.
I woke today still thinking about how I used to sink into that show.
And so today?
I felt the need to take this moment to express my gratitude to Mr. Rogers.
One of the people who loved me into being.
Happy sighs.
Kris
He was kind and gentle and reassuring. We don’t see that in kid’s programming anymore.
That is sad for them.
That is all,
I know that for me?
I needed kind and gentle and reassuring.
I so did.
He was just lovely.
FIRSTIES
another gold star for me!
I was waiting for this blog to pop up before I head home for the day. A little tasty mind appetizer for me on my drive home.
(humming….won’t you be my neighbor)
That is all
You keep this up, you will be all covered in gold stars.
Silly you.
I know people love making fun of Mr Rogers, but there were few things I adored as a child as much as King Friday XIII.
Mr. Rogers is easy to mock.
There is much to mock. He was silly.
But the connection little-girl me felt to him?
The tears I have in my eyes at this moment as I remember that connection?
Nothing to mock there.
At all.
That is magic.
You may have seen this, but if not, it speaks to the ability of kindness and sincerity to soften even the hardest of cynics (and I didn’t mean “hard” in a dirty way which I feel the need to clarify in a comment about Mr. Rogers).
This is a decades-old video of Fred Rogers solicity funding for PBS. And it is lovely.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yXEuEUQIP3Q
I have seen that before, but I just clicked and watched again.
Just lovely.
Beyond lovely.
Thank you.
This was beautiful, Kris! Please know that I don’t disagree with you in the least. My blog is NOT a serious blog. It is a humor blog. I LOVED MISTER ROGERS. I agree with exactly everything that you said. My post really didn’t make fun of HIM, just some funny aspects of the show. I didn’t agree with all of the comments on the post that day myself. Knowing how much you care about Mister Rogers,
On a weekly basis, I assess child language development. I remember that our professors often referred to Mister Rogers in graduate school as the model of how parents and therapists should speak to young children. Calmly. Respectfully. Lovingly. On the child’s level. I respect him very much. I respect my parents, too, but I still like to tease with them. :)
Knowing how much you care about Mister Rogers, I know you will love this clip of him defending PBS to the Senate (you may have already seen it): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yXEuEUQIP3Q. It made me cry. It really did. I will now think of you when I hear it again.
Thanks for linking to my blog up there.
Kelley -
Oh, lovely you! I so know that yours is a humor blog. And your post was funny! It was!
I was just taken aback at my response to your commenters.
Not that they weren’t also funny.
They were.
I just felt so protective and vulnerable.
And that took me back to vulnerable childhood me.
And protective Mr. Rogers.
I have no disagreement whatsoever with your post. All you said was hilarious and true. Your commenters touched a nerve, that’s all.
I loved your post.
Thanks, you.
It’s a beautiful day in this neighborhood,
A beautiful day for a neighbor,
Would you be mine?
Could you be mine?
It’s a neighborly day in this beautywood,
A neighborly day for a beauty,
Would you be mine?
Could you be mine?
I have always wanted to have a neighbor just like you,
I’ve always wanted to live in a neighborhood with you.
So let’s make the most of this beautiful day,
Since we’re together, we might as well say,
Would you be mine?
Could you be mine?
Won’t you be my neighbor?
Won’t you please,
Won’t you please,
Please won’t you be my neighbor?
Spoken: Hi television neighbor, I’m glad we’re together again….
Happy sighs, Bill.
Happy sighs.
Thank you.
Mine was Bill Cosby. But oh how I understand this.
Lovely friend. Just lovely.
Oh, I am so glad you understand.
Thank you.
We all have different perceptions of other people. Thank God we do. When I was about 5 years old my mother (who was an alcoholic) was supposed to be watching me – I lived with my grandparents. I don’t quite remember what happened but I found myself alone, locked out of my grandparent’s home and my mom being who knows where. It was dark out so it must have been fairly late – it was in the summer. I was sitting on my porch, crying, scared to death, not knowing what to do. The man who lived across the street, who everyone said was a bad man, who did drugs, who didn’t care for his family, came over and silently sad down beside me. He sat there with me, for hours, waiting for my grandparents to get home. He didn’t say much, just sat there. That night? He was my hero!
Kim -
What a gorgeous story.
I love that.
As I love the notion that a small gesture can mean everything.
A man sat with you. That’s all.
And he is your hero.
That is perfection, and it speaks to the impact we have every day in the lives of those we touch.
He sat with you.
That’s all.
That’s perfect.
Google Mr. Rogers sometime and read all of his accomplishments! It will make you love him even more! Bit of trivia – he was a WWII vet and wore long sleeves on his show because of tattoos that he felt the children didn’t need to see. To me, that shows how much respect for children that he had. I’m glad you have such wonderful memories of this wonderful man.
I have read quite a bit about Mr. Rogers.
He was an awesomely accomplished man.
Plus also?
I knew about his tattoos!
Thanks, you.
Oh god, I have tears in my eyes. I loved Mr. Rogers for the same reasons, he was kind and loving and gentle while my own father was mean and hateful and cruel. The Portland Children’s Museum had a Mr. Rogers exhibit when I was 19 and I went(I took my 6 year old cousins as an excuse, but even they knew that part was for me) and I sat in the replica of his living room and fought back tears. When he died my mother called me at college and told me to sit down before she told me. My father is still alive but I will be shocked if I cry when he dies the way I did when the world lost Mr. Rogers.
You may have already read it, but there is an amazing story about Mr. Rogers written by a man named Tom Junod. Mr. Junod writes for Esquire Magazine, and he is one of my favorite writers. I remembered when I went to write this post that I read an article Junod wrote a long time ago about Mr. Rogers.
It’s a long article.
But it is exceptional.
http://www.pittsburghinwords.org/tom_junod.html
It’s entitled, Can you say . . . “Hero”?
Yes.
The routines. The serenity.
Yes.
Mr. Rogers was never in a hurry.
He never had a bus to catch or a job to rush off to or a meal to cook.
He was never too busy to stop and spend some time, pay a little attention.
Something so many children craved. Still do.
Mr. Rogers understood more about what children need than all the rest of the children’s programmers on the air combined.
The loud, colorful, manic shows they have for kids now? All you need is some acid and you’d have one hell of a trip on your hands.
But maybe that’s the point. Raise a generation of manic, ADD kids so they’ll grow up to become manic, multi-tasking worker bees suited for a lightning-paced business world.
No thanks. Give me a cardigan and some comfy shoes any day. And maybe some puppets to play with.
I do love some of the programs that are available on TV now. I love the manic energy and the fast humor and the endless busyness. It’s addictive.
But I do wonder if the addictive nature of such programming has overridden the goal of serving children’s best needs.
Sigh.
I too loved Mr. Rogers. That show was like MAGIC for me. I get the good-natured ribbing that people offer about Mr. Rogers, but he was like a friend. This is so beautifully written.
He was like a friend.
Like the neighbor he pretended to be.
Loved that show.
Loved that man.
Thank you.
I feel like Mr. Rogers always knew what to say. He’s comforting. His books are very well done too! I recently bought “When a Pet Dies” It helped me just as much as my kid!
Robin -
Agreed. He has written some lovely books.
More, though?
I love his songs.
They are exquisite.
Happy sighs.
Kris-
Yes! And the puppetry…..
Thanks.
You know what’s funny?
Part of what I loved about his puppets was that they were so very obviously pretend.
I mean, they came to life . . . but you had to use your imagination to see that life.
Mr. Rogers was always so clear about it being make-believe.
And in make-believe, perfection is not required.
Only imagination.
I can see why Mr. Rogers would have been so comforting when your own father let you down.
I remember a relative by marriage who was so hard to talk to because he was soooo deliberate and said so little — and must have been a wonderful Navy Chaplain for just the same reasons.
As a motor-mouth, I’m chastened.
Thanks, lovely you.
Sometimes fewer words are required.
Who knew, right?
There’s probably a profound relationship between the brevity of the response and the profundity.
It’s one of the appealing things about your writing. Few words forces the reader to do so actively and fill in lacunae.
I don’t know what to say to this, as I sit here wiping away tears. I’m glad that you had Mr. Rogers.
I just wish you had had more.
Silence is sometimes good.
Ten seconds worth, lovely you.
Thank you.
That was not meant to be sassy, by the way.
Appreciative, not sassy.