I never saw Mork & Mindy, and I wasn’t around to see his drug addled early days, but I did grow up wishing Robin Williams were my dad. I first saw Robin Williams in the hell-like, fear-inducing spectacle that was Hook. Seeing him and his fur run around in tights pretending to be a kid, for whatever reason, terrified me. The fear did not last long, though; pretty soon he would become an ever-calming, omnipresent figure in movies and television that always turned dark skies blue. He was the mad scientist of teaching kids not to give up, whether it was escaping a psychotic British hunter, or surviving your parents’ divorce. He showed you how to get through it.
I must have watched Mrs. Doubtfire once or twice a week as a kid. After the confusion that was my parents separating, it filled a hole, it answered questions I was afraid to ask, it left me hopeful just knowing that a guy like him existed — even if it were only on my television. As I grew up, his movies were always there. Jumanji taught me never to run from an adventure and left me salivating at the prospect of one day fighting giant mosquitoes. He was goofy, seemingly insane, but he was your friend. A person who seemed to understand any problem kids might be having.
As the years passed, I watched him make talk show hosts and interviewers alike visibly uncomfortable with his non-stop voices, inability to sit still, and tendency to bust out in song — but it never seemed weird to me. I always felt like I knew him, that I was in on the joke, and that he was doing it to show me and everyone else who grew up watching him that everything was a big joke, that we were in on it with him, and that he was doing all of this for us. He left you feeling as if you were in some secret club together, where he was always present, acting so over the top that when your moment came to shine, whatever and whenever it was, you, too, wouldn’t hesitate to be yourself.
Even today, watching him helps me erase any doubts I have about my own life. Whenever I find myself wondering if I have any business being or even calling myself a writer, I put on Dead Poets Society. I close my eyes and suddenly I’m in a blazer and khakis, huddled up around him as he tells me the meaning of life: “Answer: That you are here, that life exists, and identity. That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse. That the powerful plays goes on, and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?” The words never fail to spill out of me after watching it, nor does the urge to read as much Walt Whitman as possible.
Some movies were just fun. I have watched The Birdcage countless times and it has never failed to make me laugh. Watching him try and corral Nathan Lane from his bedroom to his stage, as their faithful “House Man,” Hank Azaria, feeds him “Pirin Tablets” (which are just Aspirin with the A and S scratched off) always leaves me smiling. It has even become a sort of tradition with my family, to watch it on Thanksgiving. And what kid could forget him playing the genie in Aladdin, a role that made him an institution, as far as I am concerned.
Yesterday, Robin Williams ended the twenty-year journey I and countless others had taken with him, taking his own life at 63. When I heard the news, via text from my cousin, I was crushed. I never met him but I could not help but wish I could have done something. Maybe if I could have just told him it would be okay, like he had for me through all of those movies over the years, he might have stayed. Depression is a very real thing. It can pass quickly, like the urge within a former smoker when smelling a cigarette, but it tends to have the life long, lingering effects of the bad habit too. Every time you think you have it beat, it comes back. It’s a war that never ends and is fought one battle at a time. Unfortunately, he finally lost. But you don’t have to lose. If he taught us anything, it’s simply that nothing is impossible. So never be afraid to ask for help. Death is the end game — it comes no matter what — but that doesn’t mean you have to make it easy for him. Yes, it has come early and taken one of the most beloved entertainers that ever lived, and yes, I feel like I’ve lost my Dad, but we should not whimper. He has left us with a mountain of memories to look back on. Instead, take his advice of “Carpe Diem,”and seize the day, even if he could not.
RIP: Robin Williams, July 21, 1951 — August 11, 2014
Article by Timothy White. You can follow him on Twitter @Tiptothehip
