That Was a Great Game

On November 29th, 2001, upon walking into my high school, my boyfriend at the time greeted me with the news that George Harrison had passed away. This was smack dab in the midst of my biggest phase of Beatlemania, so naturally, hearing that half of the greatest rock band in the world was now gone, I was shocked and upset. I allowed myself a couple of silent tears in the girls’ locker room.
On April 11th, 2007, while working on a paper in the Chapman University library, I received an email from Borders telling me that Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. had died. I had first been introduced to his work in an English class that, for me, redefined English classes, and ultimately helped me discover my passion for the English language. For that reason, I considered Vonnegut a tremendous influence on me and my chosen career. I was grateful to be alone inside a private study room when I received word of his death, because I once again shed a calm tear or two. It didn’t help that this was two days before my birthday.
On August 11th, 2014, I was at work, just finishing up my last show of the day. When we got downstairs, I hung up my tunic and reached for my phone to see if anyone had tried to get in touch with me while I was on stage. There, at the top of my Facebook news feed, was a status one of my friends had posted, saying, quite simply, “R.I.P. Robin Williams.” These days, Facebook hoaxes run rampant, and it’s common for me to do some fact-checking before believing that a celebrity is actually gone. For the first time, though, I caught myself thinking, “Dear God, please let this one be a hoax.” It wasn’t. And upon reading further, I found the circumstances of his death to be more upsetting than I could have expected. I felt numb the entire walk back to my car. Once I was on the road, away from my friends and free to get lost in thought, I felt a lump in my throat and the sting of tears in my eyes.

Up until last month, I’d never been prone to getting emotional about the deaths of celebrities. I’ve made exceptions for a couple of people who made a significant impact on me in some way, but even then, I never took more than a couple of minutes to grieve quietly before moving on with my life. After all, I never knew these people personally.

Furthermore, I’ve had a tendency to raise an eyebrow at people who acted like they did know whatever celebrity they were openly grieving. Now, I feel like I should clarify here, I’m not talking about world leaders or religious figures or people who made a truly profound impact on the world. People like Nelson Mandela or Mother Teresa or Pope John Paul II are in a category of their own, as far as I’m concerned. Right now, I’m purely talking about entertainers. I saw it happen primarily when Michael Jackson died. I was at work at the time, and even in the hours leading up to his death, the entire world seemed to be grinding to a halt. Every breakroom was packed with people glued to the television screens, so much so that I wondered if there was anyone actually out helping guests. When it was officially pronounced, people legitimately seemed to have a hard time doing their jobs for the rest of the day. Even now, years later, people continue to mourn and post tributes, especially whenever the anniversary rolls around. And up until last month, I just kept on wondering why.

Even when I found myself in the same situation, I still spent the first few hours after I got the news wondering why. Why was choking back the tears becoming more and more difficult by the minute? Why did it feel like there was this giant hole in my heart? Why did I get the urge to go buy a six-pack of beer and spend the rest of the evening doing nothing but drinking and binge-watching Robin Williams movies? Why did I feel this pressing need to call Kevin and ask to be consoled? Basically, why was I acting like I had truly lost a loved one?

When I called Kevin, (because I needed to, don’t judge me), I opened by warning him that I was about to sound a bit ridiculous. However, when I delved into my reason for calling, he reassured me that it wasn’t ridiculous at all. In fact, to my great surprise, he was feeling very much the same way. So we spent the next hour commiserating and trying to make some sense of our feelings. Kevin lamented that he couldn’t think of a single movie he’d be able to watch, at least for a while. He pointed out that so many of the iconic Robin Williams movies we grew up watching contain themes of staying young, or making the most of our brief time on this earth, or eternal life. Some even address death, manifesting in ways painfully close to what ended up coming to pass. Since that day, in all of the films I’ve watched in memory, I’ve noticed a few moments that, while meant to be throwaway lines or jokes, now hold so much more weight, and feel so much more grim.

At some point during that conversation, the reason for our unprecedented grief dawned on me as I heard myself say it aloud. We felt like a part of our childhood had died. My friend Dan had also put it pretty perfectly while we’d been walking to our cars after work. Robin had been such a constant presence while our generation was growing up that it was hard to think of him as human, as the kind of being who could die. He was just there, a staple of our childhoods who would always be around, always be making movies, always be making us laugh

Over the next couple of days, I found myself surprised and strangely comforted by the outpouring of grief and love on social media. There is always some level of response when a celebrity dies, but it’s typically more sparse and more varied. People within that certain demographic to whom said celebrity appealed will post statuses expressing sadness, but once that post is up, they move on with their lives. Those people who didn’t care much for that person feel the occasional desire to get snarky, if the tribute posts go on a little too long for their liking.

This was entirely different. Instead of a specific group of people, instead of a few kind words every few entries, this was my entire news feed, and what felt like every single one of my Facebook friends. This was a surge of heartfelt sentiments, old clips, touching stories, even an outreach to those suffering from depression. Many of the posts were simple movie quotes, ranging from the beautifully heartbreaking, (“You know that place between sleep and awake? That place where you still remember dreaming? That’s where I’ll always love you, Peter Pan. That’s where I’ll be waiting.”), to the appropriately hilarious, (“I’ll be back but I’m coming as oil.”). Some weren’t quotes so much as silly references, (one friend heard about the circumstances of his death, and remarked that she would have preferred a run-by fruiting, while another refused to believe Robin was truly gone until someone rolled a five or an eight). And no matter how many of these statuses came pouring in, there wasn’t an ounce of negativity, not a single person telling us all to get over it. I heard stories of cruel people out there in the world posting things of an insensitive and even gruesome nature, but only from Internet trolls whose sole aim is to ruin everything. Not a trace of that made its way onto my own feed, or came from anyone I knew. The closest anyone came to it was suggesting that we stop grieving Robin and start celebrating him with laughter, because that’s what he would have wanted.

Never in my social media experience had I seen my feed so entirely taken over, (I suppose the Doctor Who 50th Anniversary came close, but most of you know how I feel about that nonsense), and never could I have expected that this kind of a surge would be so driven by love and mourning for a person that most of us had never met. Many people I know made observations very similar to my own, that it wasn’t typical for them to take the passing of a celebrity so hard, and that it felt like their childhood had died. It spoke volumes about his talent that his death could leave such a void in the hearts of millions of his fans. It spoke volumes about his character that he seemed to have touched so many of his fellow celebrities so deeply, not just in that he was a joy to work with, but in that he would give so much of himself to anyone who needed help, even when they didn’t ask for it. The fact that the entire world seemed to be in mourning made me realize what a huge loss this really was.
The actual details of Robin’s death only made it a more crippling blow. There was another quote someone used in connection with the tragedy, taken from the graphic novel Watchmen:

I heard a joke once: Man goes to doctor. Says he’s depressed. Says life is harsh and cruel. Says he feels all alone in a threatening world. Doctor says, “Treatment is simple. The great clown Pagliacci is in town tonight. Go see him. That should pick you up.” Man bursts into tears. Says, “But doctor...I am Pagliacci.”

I heard a number of people expressing shock over the fact that Robin would commit suicide, and not just because he was rich or famous or other earthly things that people seem to value. Mostly it was because people couldn’t understand how someone so funny could be so depressed. Sadly, I wasn’t surprised by this at all.

I got to thinking a lot about an article I read a few months ago, a part of which discussed why the funniest people also tend to be the most depressed. This article had resonated pretty heavily with me. I feel awkward saying that, like I’m claiming to be hilarious, but on my most confident days, I like to think I have a gift for making people laugh. And I certainly sympathized with what the article said. People who are truly funny, (and I mean really witty, not just any schmo who knows how to evoke a cheap laugh), are often that way because we see things that other people don’t. Many things are funny because they’re true, and hence people with the power of observation can make people laugh simply by pointing them out. But while it’s a blessing, it’s also a curse. We see the humorous, but we also see the ugly, the bleak, and the mean. We can’t turn a blind eye to it the way other people can, and it’s far too easy to lose faith. The only hope we have is to recognize the humor as often as we point it out to others. Unfortunately, there are some who never learn how.

I’m going to digress slightly because I think it’s important to bring up the “Genie, you’re free” issue. After Robin Williams died, amongst the numerous posts, there were a few people who used the aforementioned line from Aladdin in his honor. Many took offense to this, saying that those who posted the line were glorifying suicide, and that they should be ashamed of themselves. As I try to write more, I’ll be aiming for a theme of understanding. I hope to teach people to listen to one another, and to try to recognize the real meaning behind someone’s words before jumping on the offensive. On that note, I don’t think we should be trying to shame people who were clearly going for a heartfelt sentiment with no malicious intent. That being said, it’s very true that people who are in a vulnerable state might interpret this homage as a way of saying that suicide will free you from your problems. This train of thought could be dangerous for someone suffering from clinical depression. I don’t think people need to be ashamed of themselves, because the intentions are clearly pure, but it’s good to be aware of the impact that those words could have.

On August 11th, 2014, I sat on the couch with a beer and watched Mrs. Doubtfire. I no longer had the strength to keep myself from crying, nor did I really care to at this point, and so I gave in and broke down into hysterical tears.

It’s September 11th, 2014. Over the past month, I’ve been running the gamut of Robin Williams movies, I’ve read/watched everything that has been shared through social media, (and have started compiling a list of everything I’ve liked, in case anyone is interested in checking it out), I’ve shared Genie Mimosas with other friends who felt the void just as much as I did, and I’ve let myself cry more than once. Now that I’ve had a good amount of time to process my thoughts and feelings, I’m here at my computer, letting it all out. I don’t quite know how this is going to sound, (especially for my friends who don’t share my beliefs), but I catch myself wondering if, now that he’s in a place where his mind is no longer clouded by depression, he can finally feel all the love he has, from family, friends, and fans alike. I even wonder whether or not he knows I’m writing this, and is in some way moved by it. Granted, I feel a little silly, but I wonder it anyway.
So Robin, if you are somehow aware of everything that’s going through my head at the moment, I want to bid you the fondest farewell, and say thank you for everything.  We’ll never have a friend like you.

CURRENTLY WATCHING - Hook