Hi, Neighbor
Today would have been Fred Rogers' 80th birthday, and to celebrate him it has been designated "Sweater Day." By whom, I'm not sure, but I'm wearing my favorite V-neck in his honor.
Last summer the City of Pittsburgh announced plans to erect a statue of Rogers, to be
The Rogers philosophy that was repeated like a mantra throughout his lifetime explained that who we are and who we become as adults is a direct result of those who have taken a genuine interest in us, those who have encouraged, inspired and, above all, listened to us as children. -- Joann CantrellAs a parent, I spend a lot of time thinking about how I raise my kids, and how I can teach them the values that I think are important -- fairness, compassion, respect of others, a desire to make the world better. I think all that starts with teaching them that they are important, and special, and making sure they are confident in who they are so they can eventually go out and pass that confidence on to others.
So, today, take a minute to think about the people who made you who you are today, and think about who looks to you for guidance, and how you can make them the best people they can be.
Have a wonderful day.
posted by Christian @ 9:06 AM
3 Comments
3 Comments:
This is from an email that a friend of mine wrote when Mr. Rogers died. It's a beautiful homage to Mr. Rogers, and I know my friend is sincere in all of the sentiments:
As you may or may not know, Mr. Rogers is a proud and lifelong Pgh resident. He actually attended seminary with a very good friend/mentor of mine, and while I was working for that mentor helping him write his latest book, I learned a great deal about what a generous and approachable soul Mr. R was. Truly an amazing human being who, from what I gather, was not portraying a character on his TV show. That *was* him. But here's my story, unrelated to my friend/mentor, and occurring long ago and far away.
Spring, 1983. I am finishing my first year in college as a music major at Carnegie Mellon University in Pgh.
My friend and I decide to skip our morning classes, and walk into Oakland's shopping district in search of vinyl (a very, very common occurrence for me at this time). I am 18, and have been on my own for several years now. At this moment in time, I am in full-on "I wanna be Joe Strummer" mode. Mohawk that hangs below my ass (it was alternately turquoise, black, or my purdy natural auburn, but I forget precisely the color on this occassion. I was able to achieve startling heights of up to 2 feet when I spiked it, but it was flacid on this morning, with only its giant natural poof), cigarette leg ripped and safety-pinned jeans, tank boots, and the prize possession of my young life - my leather biker jacket emblazoned with lots of chains, and the coolest of art work from several friends and myself (several years later, the epic "Free James Brown" slogan appeared on my sleeve, igniting a national punk trend!). My friend is also a punker, who always wore his hair in the traditional punk "6 big spikes" look, and also attired in boots and leather.
Aside: at this time in Pittsbrgh pop history, there are maybe 25 punks in the entire city. Of those, maybe 4 or 5 are ever awake during the daylight hours. Certainly, none of us have jobs.
So. We're sauntering down 5th Avenue, generally gabbing about our hopes of finding that Husker Du import that eludes us, or maybe pondering the possibility of coming across a rare out of print Stiff Little Fingers or Naked Raygun record, when we see him across the street - MR. MUTHA FUCKIN' ROGERS! In the flesh, sweater wearing, public radio tote bag toting, Mr. Rogers! Initially I am as excited at this celeb spotting as I would be if Ian McKaye himself, or maybe HR, appeared across the street. Then I remember that I am a punk (context: at this point in my life, I had already found the Dead, seen some shows, and subsequently abandoned the Dead for punk, albeit with secret Dead listening that I tried very hard to hide from my punk friends. Ahhhh, the shame of youth culture!). As I reconnect with my inner Sid Vicious, and compose myself so as not to damage my street cred with my boy, I turn to see if he has even noticed Mr. R. I notice my friend is no longer beside me. Then I hear it. . .
"MR. ROGERS!!!!! WAIT UP WAIT UP WAIT UP WAIT UP!!!!" My friend is bellowing at the top of his lungs, while simultaneously charging across 4 lanes of busy traffic, running RIGHT AT Mr. R! I, of course, follow him directly into the street.
At this point, I ask you to consider this sight from Mr. R's view. He hears his name bellowed across 4 lanes of traffic, and looks up to see: two mohawked, leather clad, booted hooligans barrelling straight towards him at absolutely full speed, dodging buses cars and taxis. BEARING DOWN, FULL THROTTLE, WITH ALL THE PENT UP PASSION AND ENERGY THAT YEARS OF PUNK MUSIC CULTIVATES. MOHAWKS FLAPPING, BOOTS STOMPING, AND CHAINS BOUNCING.
Of course, both me and my buddy want nothing more than to say hello, to bask in the love that Mr. R. embodies. But I wonder, to this day, what he thought as we approached.
As soon as we had his (and every nearby motorist's and pedetrian's) attention, Mr. R. simply stopped, turned toward us with his incredibly sincere littel half smile, and waited. We were upon him in seconds, a blur of cylconic handshaking and kowtowing and "boy, I loved you when I was a kid" blathering. Years and years of punk image and attitude cultivation, countless nights spent drinking cheap wine and pondering the finer points of whether the NY Dolls or the Ramones broke punk in the US, endless days worshipping the Clash's melding of adolescent rage with carribean joy, repeated trips to the five and dime for more (and more and more) safety pins (always stolen, never purchased), self-ear-piercing (how quaint by today's standards, huh?), and of course, uncountable trips to the Army Surplus and Salvation Army stores to amass just the right punk wardrobe (never to consist of more than 5 actual pieces of clothing and outerwear, to be worn in a constant never-changing rotation), melted directly away for both me and my friend.
We forgot we were punks. We were, at that magical moment, 6 again. With dorky haircuts and flood pants and daily vegetable intake requirements from our parents. We craved not the latest Bad Brains 7", but just one spoon of sugar on our oatmeal while being simultaneously allowed to watch Spiderman cartoons, as life's greatest reward.
So what did Mr. Rogers do? He didn't run. He didn't instinctively clutch at his wallet, as most adults did when we passed. He didn't register that incredulous look of repulsion and shock so rewardingly sent our way (and sought, to be honest) by most real humans.
He smiled. He extended his hand to shake ours. He looked right into my eyes, and saw nothing but me. His reaction was one of complete and total social regularity, despite our appearance. It was if we were two young college lads named Biff and Warren who had stepped directly out of a Land's End catalog, and complimented his cardigan at a polite after church brunch. He didn't flinch at all.
Then, he chided us gently for running into traffic. He added the caveat that, although he was sure we could handle ourselves in traffic (I believe he said something about us looking like we were "seasoned city dwellers"), we should be more aware of the example we had set for any kids who might have witnessed it. Could anyone but Mr. R. truly think that a couple of young punks could possibly set any type of positive example for any child, especially in 1983? Amazing! We talked briefly, as we first gushed about how much we had loved him and watched him daily as children, and then, as our self consciousness returned, profusely absolved him from blame for our current counter-culture choices and appearance.
He smiled. He nodded. He waited and waited and waited while we got it all out. Then, he complimented my friend on his hair color, and asked me to show him which of the decorations on my jacket I had painted myself. He liked my art work! We shook hands some more (very enthusiastically), thanked him again, and said "Yes! Thank you!" when he offered us each a piece of gum.
He walked away. My friend and I looked at each other, glowing. Then reality set in, as we left Mr. R.'s love filled, all accepting, neighborhoody aura.
We rescowled, adjusted our collars, bent our heads, and returned to our punky life, never quite to be the same again when it came to our own self-perceived shock value.
My only regret: I didn't ask him to sign my jacket (which, sadly, I've never been able to part with. It still hangs in my basement, awaiting its turn to completely humiliate my children when trotted out at just the right social moment in their upcoming teen years).
Rest in peace, Mr. Rogers. You certainly taught me much, and set a model for unconditional love and positivity that any Dead Head would aspire to. After my mom, you were the first adult ever to look into my eyes and see something, anything, of value. At least that I could detect. And I'll never forget that tiny moment of smiling eye contact, of seeing *me* truly -one I'm sure he repeated thousands of times with thousands of youth, but one which resonates with amazing singularity and power in my weird life.
We should all be so blessed to have such amazing neighbors.
That's awesome, thanks for posting it. This:
"Years and years of punk image and attitude cultivation...melted directly away for both me and my friend.
We forgot we were punks. We were, at that magical moment, 6 again."
Is exactly what I feel. I'm old, cynical and jaded about an awful lot of things in the world, but thinking about Mr. Rogers turns me back into a kid again, wide-eyed, innocent, and trusting in the world around me again.
When we moved to Berkeley (you were 3), we lived next door to Mr. & Mrs. Rogers. At first you thought it was going to be the REAL Mr. Rogers and were more than a little disappointed to learn otherwise, although they too were very kind, and gave you ice cream.
Nice to think of Mr. Real Rogers...
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