I am thinking of Father's words as I reflect on three separate incidents today. The first was this afternoon when I stepped out of my car in the parking lot at the beach. After grabbing my beach chair, towel, and beach bag, I began walking towards the water. I passed a couple with a small child. The man stopped in his tracks and reopened the door to their truck, apparently having forgotten an item. I heard him talking under his breath, something about what he needed to find, but I could not hear his exact words. Continuing to stroll, I heard the woman yelling out in exasperation to the man, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! COME ON!". The little boy patiently held onto his mother's hand as she began muttering under her breath. She was clearly frustrated with the delay, but the child remained calm, turned to the woman and asked sweetly, "Do you want me to go get him?" She sighed in frustration and said, "Yes. Go get him. See what the problem is".
Leaving the three behind me, I took a deep breath, thought of how sad it was that their afternoon at the beach was beginning with such stress, and I continued walking.
Later in the day I read an article a colleague of mine had shared online. The article challenged the often held belief that parents who are using their phones while in public with their children are being neglectful in their parenting duties. The Jennifer Hicks' article, Dear Mom on the Iphone: You're Doing Fine, aims to defend parents who are quickly judged by others who see them with their phones in use, despite not knowing their individual stories or situations.
But it wasn't until later this evening that the message of Father's words tested me most. Actor/comedian Robin Williams was found dead today, an apparent suicide. He was only 63 years old. I felt a kick in the gut. "No", was my first response. "No".
It couldn't have been more than a minute after I read the news online that my son turned to me on the couch and shared the news with me himself. "I'm hoping this is a hoax", I said. "I don't think it is", Paul said softly. I knew he was right. By then my fingers had quickly tapped my phone's screen, flying from one news source to the next. It wasn't a hoax.
Shock. Disbelief. Horror. Pain. A little bit of anger--at drugs, at addiction, at depression, at it all, but not towards Mr. Williams himself. No. Towards him I feel so much, but not an ounce of anger. He gave so much of himself--to his art, to his comedy, to humanitarian efforts. His work and his demeanor was as honest as any man's. My heart is broken. I'm so sad tonight.
Online began the outpour of emotions from his fans. Articles about suicide, depression, addiction began to pop up as people shared their shock and their grief. Discussions of Mr. Williams' best movies and characters began circulating too, and I, myself, thought of his work. I thought of Dead Poet's Society and What Dreams May Come, two powerful movies, both beautiful films I've shown in my classroom, each with characters who end their own lives. I thought of my own work in the classroom, my own research into health and wellness as I strive to safeguard my teenage students and carry them through films and literature where depression and suicide are prevalent. Teaching Shakespeare demands this sensitivity. And now, once again, I am welling up remembering the honesty of Robin Williams' performances in his films. Damn it. He's gone.
Mr. Williams was an amazing talent who could pull off bawdy humor, dress convincingly in drag, tickle a sign language speaking chimpanzee, and hold his audience's hearts in his hand with his profound depth in dramatic film roles. We all knew of the dark areas he fought against in his personal life--his cocaine and alcohol addiction, his battles with depression. He struggled to separate himself from his pains and temptations, but it seemed he would always continue to successfully fight his dark shadows. A quote from one of his portrayed characters (Lance Clayton in the 2009 movie, World's Greatest Dad) is haunting me tonight. "I used to think the worst thing in life was to end up all alone. It's not. The worst thing in life is to end up with people that make you feel alone". Shit.
I suppose it's rather odd how much we grow to care for those in the public eye, actors or other celebrities we've never met, but whose work we've so closely studied. It can seem they are members of our own families. As I'm writing this tonight, my tummy is churning still and my tears are still brimming. It feels like I grew up with this man. He first made me laugh in his zany role as an alien on Mork & Mindy. I laughed at his stand up routines and I felt what I can only call pride when I began seeing him pulling off his dramatic roles and being heralded as a "serious actor". I suppose I thought of him like an uncle or at least, an actor mentor. I have even said at various times that his mannerisms remind me of my father in law. In any case, news of his death today has affected me. I've given a lot of thought to matters of judgement, hurt, betrayal, friendship, and disappointment. I'm struggling not to be impatient with all of us human beings who are so quick to think we're right, so quick to judge, to condemn, to betray, to lash out. Am I straying in my thoughts? No. We need to do better by one another. We need to lift one another higher, to be there for one another. We cannot lose anyone else, celebrity or not. We need to put away judgement and pride and competition and whatever else prevents us from lifting one another higher. Start right now. Forgive yourself first. Then turn to your loved ones and make things right, sound, and secure. And tomorrow spread a little kindness to a stranger. We're all in this together, after all.
Tomorrow, with the weather man saying it's going to be the last sunny day of the week, I think I'll head back to the beach. Instead of strolling by a tired family, I think I'll stop and ask if there's anything I might do to ease their burden. "Can I help you? Would you appreciate another hand?" If I see a Mom on her cell phone, I'm not going to assume she's not paying attention to her child. Maybe she's at wits end and has reached out for a little family support. I won't interrupt her conversation, but maybe I can watch her son or daughter a little more closely until she hangs up. I could then compliment her child and make her smile. And finally, Mr. Williams? I'm going to remember and honor your life's achievements and your humility and humanity by continuing to match your authenticity of spirit and your love of laughter. But as Father proved to us last Sunday at Mass, actions speak louder than words. So, watch me, Mr. Williams. Watch me. I won't let you down.
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