My dog loves
people, but she knows no fear when she’s on her leash. Back when we lived the
suburbs in Georgia, she would tear out after those grey squirrels like nobody’s
business. When we lived in Atlanta, she would sniff like a bloodhound after
where rats (yes rats, eww) had been. (Atlanta has a bit of a disgusting rat
problem, but I digress.) Now, we’re in Colorado, and there are bunnies. At dawn
and at dusk, the wild rabbits come out to play, and boy-howdy, she takes off
after those bunnies! She drags me, running along behind her with her leash and
harness straining against all her 60 pound strength. There’ve been song birds
too—always where there are rodent critters around. In all her 10 years, I’ve
never seen my dog go after a bird. Just this morning, we went on a walk, and
the rabbits had already gone away, but there were robins and song birds.
There’s one little robin, with its proud blue-black head and shiny coppery
chest, that just tweets and sings, plucks the ground for worms and bugs, and
shows no fear near me and my dog. This robin, has some innate sense—that my dog
doesn't mean any harm to him. He’s just a sweet, singing robin.
A couple weeks ago,
the world lost a robin. Robin Williams allegedly committed suicide in his home
in California. I haven’t kept up with any news reports or sheriff’s details—I
really don’t want to know. Some things are meant to be private, even in this
paparazzi, social-media-laden world. I believe Mr. Williams’ family, friends,
and especially children, deserve the chance to grieve, without commentary from
the world. I greatly respect people who
work or volunteer with the mentally ill, and I deeply respect those among us,
who have the intense call to come to the end before “nature” intended. It’s a
personal decision that takes great suffering to attempt and achieve. As
horrible as suicide is for the survivors, it’s a horrifying space that that
person’s head and heart occupy—for who knows how long, that only the pain of
death can relieve. I write today, not a commentary of Robin Williams’ death,
but my remarks about his life.
I’m sure greater scholars than I have reflected upon Shakespeare’s
writing about suicide and its connections to Robin Williams. In fact, one of
the first films that popped into my head about Robin Williams was What Dreams May Come, a movie adaptation
of a novel. Both the film and the book explore the afterlife in a surreal and
fantastical way. Both knowledge of the afterlife, and the control we have over
it—as humans, bothers us. The novel quite differs from the book—there are some unique
plot points, but I remember when I read
it, I thought, that movie really captured the essence of this book, particularly
Robin Williams’ performances. He (his character, Chris) was so tortured by the
loss of his children and later his wife, that he literally journeyed to hell to
find her. His deceased son attended him in heaven, and what better way could we
imagine heaven to be? It was aesthetically beautiful and his kids were back. The
title of the book, of course, is borrowed from Hamlet’s Soliloquy in Act 3,
Scene 1. (Page 127, if you click on THIS link from the Folger Shakespeare
library.)
I can’t help but ponder some of the connections in this text—and
Williams’ connection to Shakespeare (in parody, in stand up, in referential
performances, and of course in Midsummer
Night’s Dream as depicted in Dead
Poets Society and Neil’s subsequent suicide in that film) foreshadowed some
of the pain and suffering that we, as his audience, were not privy to see. The
high school literature teacher in me can’t help but annotate a few lines from
Hamlet’s speech:
To be, or not to be: that is the question: I
believe we have the right to choose whether we’re here or not. Life is a gift,
of course, but to those suffering, it’s a curse.
To die: to sleep; No more; and by a sleep to say we
end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks Sleep, even
in death, sounds better than thousands of natural shocks and heart ache!
To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub; Some say dreams are glimpses of heaven—perhaps it’s true?
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come Here’s that movie title there.
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, The imagery here, of mortality, choking us, coiling around us, never
permitting us rest or sleep—it’s a heavy line of thinking.
Must give us pause:
there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life; I can’t help but mention that Mr. Williams was 63 at his passing. He
acted and shared his life with the world from his 20’s. So long a life, yes, he
gave us many many moments of his.
But that the dread of something
after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
We,
as humans, simultaneously can’t know but desperately want to know (and dread)
the answers of finding out what happens after death.
There are many videos, blogs, news stories, etc. that came up after
Williams’ death about the futility of suicide. I don’t want to debate that in
this light, but I will mention that the National Suicide hotline saw a huge
percentage increase in volunteers offering to man the phones. What a tribute
and what a kindness to come out of the “undiscovered country” of another’s
death.
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| A much-loved Mork figurine left in honor of Williams |
Speaking of tributes, and living in Colorado, I didn’t realize it, but
the house in which the TV show Mork and
Mindy was set is in Boulder, only about half an hour north of where I live.
My boyfriend and I went to visit it—to pay our own respects, and bring a candle
in honor of the memory of Mr. Williams and his beloved alien character Mork. There were cards, letters, flowers,
eggs, candles, a Mork action figure, and a Gameboy (as Robin Williams was a
huge gaming fan). Even as I sit here at my boyfriend’s desk, a huge poster of
“The Legend of Zelda” looms over me. Williams was so inspired by the game and
Nintendo, he named his own daughter Zelda. My graphic designer boyfriend Chris took these photos while I walked around, re-lit candles, lit
my own St. Jude candle, and read people’s missives and messages honoring Mork
and Robin Williams. The paper that caught my eye and caused a lump to grow in
my throat? That of a little cut out piece of paper in big, scrawly kid
penmanship, stating, “I love you Genie!!”
That paper memorial jumped to my heart as I remembered another entertainer’s death and
how it impacted me as a young child. Jim Henson, creator of the Muppets, died
of cancer on my actual birthday, when I was 7 years old. To that point in my
life, I’d never known anyone who’d died and Henson’s death hit me like a truck.
I went out to my backyard that day after school, eschewing my birthday dinner,
and made play-doh and clay muppets as a mini-shrine under the pine trees. I
felt like I’d been hit in the gut, that Jim Henson had left ME personally—and
seeing that small kid’s writing—brought all that back to me.
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| Variety of signs, flowers, candles, notes, tributes |
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| Candles, Ork Eggs, letters at 1619 Pine St. |
My childhood was of course, charmed, as most childhoods are, but it had
a great deal of heartache too. My siblings and I watched Nick @ Nite—so we saw
old, quality comedies, including Mork and
Mindy. Our family favorite movies were the Marx Brothers. I bellowed the lyrics for nearly every Rodgers and Hammerstein show tune. The Genie of Aladdin spoke to all that entertainment.
What talent Mr. Williams shared with me and my siblings (dozens of times on
VHS) of the Genie’s voices, accents, and songs. I didn’t associate
myself with being a princess or an orphan; I was the dancing, singing, helpful
one. I even had a big Genie pillow that I snuggled with each night. Even though he was sad and
trapped, he could still sing about it.
Around the time that Disney was
revamping gorgeous cartoon feature length movies, my family kind of shattered. It
was a huge adjustment and my father was absent for many big (and small)
milestones. I had so much heartache and I felt like something
was missing from ME because my dad wasn't in our lives. (See the note below.) I
don’t care how it sounds, Robin Williams was a surrogate “screen” dad to
me during those years. There was comfort in the fact that there were
writers writing movies and movies getting produced about dads that either weren't there or wanted so desperately to be in their kids’ lives. It meant I wasn't alone. And it meant that there were some dads out there, loving the shit out of
their kids.
Another film we watched dozens of
times, Hook, has a line, where Peter
Banning’s wife Moira, admonishes the dad Peter, saying, “You’re missing it,
Peter.” It echoed so much of my mother’s frustration with my own father. He was
“missing” our childhoods—the few precious years that childhood exists. Of
course, that film explores what childishness is versus childlike innocence, and
how kids deserve to hope and dream, and have their parents support them. The
line that Hook states to Peter, “Death is the only great adventure I have
left,” and Peter retorts, “No. To Live. To live is the greatest adventure.” How
I longed for my dad to have wanted to swoop in and save us from whatever ‘pirates’
existed, but I had Robin Williams as my screen dad to do it for me.
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| So many people are touched by his works. |
Another one from that time is the
comedy Mrs. Doubtfire. It’s a divorced
dad who loses contact with his kids, so he dresses as an old lady in order to
be able to be around them. Once again, I wanted to be Mara Wilson, the little
girl in that film, or the singing little sister in Hook “When you’re alone, you’re not really alone,” so that my dad
would want to be around me and my siblings. Around this time too, I watched
Showtime’s Faerie Tale Theatre episodes—either ones that my grandmother had
taped for us, or reruns on the Disney channel. I was in late elementary school
when I started noticing celebrity—and that it was so neat that some famous
actors were in these shows made for kids. How generous of them! The Frog
King—where Robin Williams was a prince trapped in a slightly disturbing looking
frog outfit, stood out to me. I’d seen Aladdin, Hook, Mrs. Doubtfire…I couldn't get enough of this actor. I just had to see his whole body of work! One Friday
evening, I remember going to Blockbuster and handing my mom Goodmorning, Vietnam as my video that I
wanted to rent that weekend. My mom didn't quite explain it to me, but said,
no, I needed to pick something from the children’s section. How the 10-year-old
me would have been shocked by my hero’s language!
My family continued to be a
source of turmoil in my middle school years when Jumanji came out. My younger siblings and I loved this movie, even
though there were definitely some suspenseful and scary parts! The pain of the
father’s disdain for his son, as well as how the adult Alan and Sarah looked
out for the kids through so much danger and adventure, echoed with me
then. Robin Williams was so brave! Alan
and Sarah were going to be such good parents, I knew it. As I've become an
adult, it’s a film that I've used when teaching, because of all the imagery and
excitement. Kids in my classes from elementary to high school have learned
about writing and sculpting scenes from that movie.
A few other movies I’ve taught
with (in high school) are Swing Kids
and Dead Poets Society. Swing Kids doesn’t have Mr. Williams,
but it has the WWII era roots of students going against the grain of society
that the 1960’s DPS portrays oh so
well. The Thoreau lesson—“sucking the marrow out of the bones of life,” is one
my students quote back to me. Taking the kids outside to teach them to step out
of a pattern—to stand out? I’ve done that lesson for Iambic Pentameter. The
ripping out the boring literature book pages echo Billy Collins’ poem
“Introduction to Poetry”—I know he was playing a role, but it inspired some of
my best subversive and humanities-based teaching. The look of sadness in those
bright blue eyes, when he hears of Neil’s suicide—it portrays so much loss and
so much innocence gone, from the man who was the leader, the smart one, the
“Captain, my Captain.” How does one teach literature without that movie?
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| In about 40 minutes, more than a dozen came to pay tribute. |
On a lighter note, my life
progressed and I survived my childhood (as we all do) and I no longer felt the
same attachment to Robin Williams’ screen roles in my childhood as an adult. I
knew he was making brave choices. I knew there were good movies of his that I
saw, some I haven’t, but I will now. The relationship portrayed by Nathan Lane
and Williams as two loving parents, aging and their child getting married—it’s
some of the most beautiful and touching examples of celluloid on the subject of
family. I’ve seen live stage
performances of The Bird Cage, yet
there are tons of lines from that movie that I just adore. They’re redecorating
the apartment to look “straight” and the gay club dancers keep adding over the
top things that surely all hetero people have in their homes—the candles, giant
cross, moose head, and he bellows, “Subtract, don’t add!” I hear his voice
every time I’m shopping at Ikea. I have enough stuff in my home. Subtract,
don’t add!!
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| 1619 Pine Street in Boulder, Colorado |
As time has
progressed, childhood has become but a memory, and the technology has surpassed
anything I could have imagined in the 90’s, I've been able to rewatch Sesame
Street clips on youtube—sometimes when I’m teaching, and sometimes when I’m
feeling nostalgic for a lighter time. Maybe I realized I watched Robin Williams
when I was a very small child, maybe I didn't. Toddlers and small kids don’t
understand celebrity, and frankly, I didn't really understand that some of the
people on Sesame Street were people and some were puppets. (Ah, Jim Henson, you
did great work.)
In searching for a
few things, I came across this gem of a video of Mr. Robin Williams from
several decades ago on Sesame Street. He acted on Sesame Street because it was
a job, I’m sure. But he acted on Sesame Street because it was something he
could show his kids. And for that, I’m grateful. (Note: I have read a few
headlines that people have been unkind to Williams’ grown children in the last
few weeks, and to that, I say, shame on those who seek attention that hurts
others. And I also say to Williams’ three kids, a heartfelt thank you. Thank
you for sharing your dad with the world. Some of us didn’t have a dad who would
fight for them, the way he did in his movies. I hope that you felt as much love
from him as he shared with the world.)
And on that note, I
leave a small clip. It reminded me of the little brave robin that was out while
I walked my dog this morning. Little brave Robin, we’re not so much different,
on the inside and outside. Depression is a real disease, which requires
understanding from loved ones and treatment.
Let’s be gentle with each other. Let’s not be scared of things that are different, because we’re all similar in some ways. Be strong, friends. Hold each other up. Shine.
Note: My father and
I have reconciled in the past few years. There are many words to be said, and
many years that have passed without words, but there is no time like the
present. I don’t write this as an insult to my dad, but as my words of truth
about the years in this little girl’s life where she felt broken and abandoned.
If there’s anything to be said, it’s that time heals many, many wounds, and
thank goodness to those surrogates around us who give us strength when we need
it.
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| Nanu Nanu, and God speed, Robin. |
