As I get older and older, life seems to get more and more complicated. During senior year, all the stability that once was a given gets shaken around a bit. We need something to cling to that will make us feel better, something to reassure us that the world out there isn't really so big and scary. Something like the simple security we felt when we would sit in front of the television as little kids and soak in all that TV that our parents thought it would be good for us to watch. You know... educational shows like Romper Room, Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood, Sesame Street, and The Muppet Show.
Actually, I was kind of a tough case as a little kid. I didn't really like those shows one bit. Maybe I thought they were condescending. Maybe I thought they were stupid. I probably just didn't get their sense of humor as a four-year old.
My mother was constantly baffled by my aversion to Sesame Street. "But Ernie and Bert.... They're so cute. And Big Bird. Such a friendly yellow bird!" I would roll my eyes in boredom when my mom would plop me in front of the television while she folded the laundry. I really didn't want to watch the letter T magically dance across the screen. The only time I would get excited would be when Snuffleupagus would make a cameo.
I think that eventually my mother gave up on the Sesame Street campaign. After mild protestations and promises from my mother of "candy coffee," I finally agreed to watch some "educational" shows like Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood (I was kind of fond of Mr. Roger and his cozy cardigans) and Romper Room (I think I dreamed of being one of the kids chosen to be on the show).
Funny how I didn't really start to appreciate these shows until I reached high school and college - they were mainly fuzzy memories in my mind. And then one day while on vacation, bored with soap operas and talk shows on television, I flipped to PBS. Super Grover was flying through the air. Oh yes, he fit the description given by the show's omniscient narrator. He was "smarter than a speeding bullet, furrier than a powerful locomotive, and able to leap tall sandwiches in a single bound."
Wow, I thought to myself. This is one cool dude. He's blue, furry, loveable, and he tries to make the world around him a better place. Even if he fails. Even if he falls flat on his face. At least he's putting forth the effort. Super Grover is fallible, just like us. As he says, "We superheroes bruise easily." What I liked about him was that he always managed to get up again... no matter what kind of scrape he found himself in.
I sat down on my couch that day with a bowl of popcorn and watched the full hour of Sesame Street. I was still bored by the letters and number sketches, but was drawn in by the sophisticated and brilliant adult humor. The simple attitudes that characters like Elmo and Kermit the Frog had towards the world didn't seem so stupid anymore. I felt like I could actually apply what I was watching on screen towards my life - at least more than I could with the Ricki Lake special on transvestites fighting over custody of their children. This was real. I remember my mother coming out of the kitchen, shaking her head in disbelief. "Now you're watching this? It only took 18 years!"
Turns out I wasn't the only one. When I got to college, my roommate and I would procrastinate by channel surfing. Occasionally, we would land upon Sesame Street and sit transfixed for an hour, laughing our hearts out at the antics of Cookie Monster (gotta love that Monsterpiece Theater) and Count Dracula ("One bat, two bats, three bats....seven! Seven wonderful bats!").
I would go to the dining halls with my friends and talk for hours about our favorite shows and characters from our early days. Heated arguments would occur over whether Ernie and Bert were gay or just good friends. I'll never forget my amazement at discovering that only Big Bird could see Snuffleupagus. "That was so obvious, Alison," my friend said to me in disbelief. "Geez...where were you?"
"Guess I didn't pay that much attention back then," I said, hastily trying to bury my embarrassment in the heap of mashed potatoes on my plate.
Sometimes we take it for granted that our childhood heroes are always going to be there for us. Imagine my shock when I read in the paper this past week that my beloved Mr. Rogers was going to be retiring and would be airing his last episodes this August. Sure, he's 73. I understand; the guy deserves a break after three decades of his show. But it somehow seemed like the end of an era. I felt kind of depressed.
Sure, all good things have to come to an end, but how could he leave the neighborhood of make believe for the perennial boredom of the neighborhood of the real world? I mean, it's bad enough that Jim Henson is gone. Who's going to replace Mr. Rogers? He can't be replaced. He's Mr. Rogers! But what if they stop running his shows in syndication? Will he disappear like Howdy Doodee did when my mother grew up? What are my kids going to watch?
And then I started asking myself why I was so panicked. It was obviously because he had a strong impact on my life. He had such a way with words and made us realize how beautiful the world and the people around us are... something we too often forget as we get older and certainly aren't taught in school .
Mr. Rogers wanted us to appreciate being alive: "It's such a good feeling to know you're alive. It's such a happy feeling: You're growing inside. And when you wake up ready to say, I think I'll make a snappy new day."
And to come to terms with who we are: "I can put on a hat, or put on a coat.... I can change all my names and find a place to hide. I can do almost anything, but I'm still myself inside."
So I started to relax a little bit. I realized that as long as I keep Mr. Rogers' words inside of me, his legacy will live on... something that he is striving hard to ensure through an extensive website, books, satellite distribution of his bedtime stories, and reruns of his shows.
He says in the article I read, "There always needs to be a place for somebody who wants to offer some deep and simple and personal communication because I don't think that the human being is going to change that much" (NewYork Times, "Still Around the Neighborhood," 4/10/01).
That did it for me. He was right. Nobody is going to replace Mr. Rogers, and his straightforward, honest way of looking at the world will live on because the people of my generation won't let him die. We love what he taught us too much. It is ingrained in our very being, just like Jim Henson's loveable and wonderful Muppets are an indelible part of us. This is our cultural legacy, and it's one we will possessively protect till the end.
I sit at my desk trying to study. It is hard to concentrate on my schoolwork. The weather is getting more and more beautiful. The birdies are cheerily chirping. I watch the people outside bike and rollerblade past my window. I stare at the textbook in front of me and desperately try to immerse myself in the blur of words rolling before my eyes. And then I hear a voice from the past in my ear. "It's a beautiful day in this neighborhood, A beautiful day for a neighbor. Would you be mine? Could you be mine?" Unable to contain myself any longer, I leap up from my desk, slip into my sneakers, and run out the door. I'm ready to soak in the sunshine of the glorious day in front of me. Schoolwork will come later. After all, I could hardly turn down an invitation from Mr. Rogers. That just wouldn't be polite.
