|ONCE UPON A TIME, a little boy loved a stuffed
animal whose name was Old Rabbit. It was so old, in fact, that it was really
an unstuffed animal; so old that even back then, with the little boy's brain
still nice and fresh, he had no memory of it as "Young Rabbit,"
or even "Rabbit"; so old that Old Rabbit was barely a rabbit at
all but rather a greasy hunk of skin without eyes and ears, with a single
red stitch where its tongue used to be. The little boy didn't know why he
loved Old Rabbit; he just did, and the night he threw it out the car window
was the night he learned how to pray. He would grow up to become a great
prayer, this little boy, but only intermittently, only fitfully, praying
only when fear and desperation drove him to it, and the night he threw Old
Rabbit into the darkness was the night that set the pattern, the night that
taught him how. He prayed for Old Rabbit's safe return, and when, hours
later, his mother and father came home with the filthy, precious strip of
rabbity roadkill, he learned not only that prayers are sometimes answered
but also the kind of severe effort they entail, the kind of endless frantic
summoning. And so when he threw Old Rabbit out the car window the next time,
it was gone for good.
YOU WERE A CHILD ONCE, TOO. That's what Mister Rogers said, that's what
he wrote down, once upon a time, for the doctors. The doctors were ophthalmologists.
An ophthalmologist is a doctor who takes care of the eyes. Sometimes,
ophthalmologists have to take care of the eyes of children, and some children
get very scared, because children know that their world disappears when
their eyes close, and they can be afraid that the ophthalmologists will
make their eyes close forever. The ophthalmologists did not want to scare
children, so they asked Mister Rogers for help, and Mister Rogers agreed
to write a chapter for a book the ophthalmologists were putting together—a
chapter about what other ophthalmologists could do to calm the children
who came to their offices. Because Mister Rogers is such a busy man, however,
he could not write the chapter himself, and he asked a woman who worked
for him to write it instead. She worked very hard at writing the chapter,
until one day she showed what she had written to Mister Rogers, who read
it and crossed it all out and wrote a sentence addressed directly to the
doctors who would be reading it: "You were a child once, too."
And that's how the chapter began.
THE OLD NAVY-BLUE SPORT JACKET comes off first, then the dress shoes,
except that now there is not the famous sweater or the famous sneakers
to replace them, and so after the shoes he's on to the dark socks, peeling
them off and showing the blanched skin of his narrow feet. The tie is
next, the scanty black batwing of a bow tie hand-tied at his slender throat,
and then the shirt, always white or light blue, whisked from his body
button by button. He wears an undershirt, of course, but no matter—soon
that's gone, too, as is the belt, as are the beige trousers, until his
undershorts stand as the last impediment to his nakedness. They are boxers,
egg-colored, and to rid himself of them he bends at the waist, and stands
on one leg, and hops, and lifts one knee toward his chest and then the
other and then… Mister Rogers has no clothes on.
Nearly every morning of his life, Mister Rogers has gone swimming, and
now, here he is, standing in a locker room, seventy years old and as white
as the Easter Bunny, rimed with frost wherever he has hair, gnawed pink
in the spots where his dry skin has gone to flaking, slightly wattled
at the neck, slightly stooped at the shoulder, slightly sunken in the
chest, slightly curvy at the hips, slightly pigeoned at the toes, slightly
aswing at the fine bobbing nest of himself… and yet when he speaks,
it is in that voice, his voice, the famous one, the unmistakable one,
the televised one, the voice dressed in sweater and sneakers, the soft
one, the reassuring one, the curious and expository one, the sly voice
that sounds adult to the ears of children and childish to the ears of
adults, and what he says, in the midst of all his bobbing nudity, is as
understated as it is obvious: "Well, Tom, I guess you've already
gotten a deeper glimpse into my daily routine than most people have."
ONCE UPON A TIME, a long time ago, a man took off his jacket and put on
a sweater. Then he took off his shoes and put on a pair of sneakers. His
name was Fred Rogers. He was starting a television program, aimed at children,
called Mister Rogers' Neighborhood. He had been on television before,
but only as the voices and movements of puppets, on a program called The
Children's Corner. Now he was stepping in front of the camera as Mister
Rogers, and he wanted to do things right, and whatever he did right, he
wanted to repeat. And so, once upon a time, Fred Rogers took off his jacket
and put on a sweater his mother had made him, a cardigan with a zipper.
Then he took off his shoes and put on a pair of navy-blue canvas boating
sneakers. He did the same thing the next day, and then the next…until
he had done the same things, those things, 865 times, at the beginning
of 865 television programs, over a span of thirty-one years. The first
time I met Mister Rogers, he told me a story of how deeply his simple
gestures had been felt, and received. He had just come back from visiting
Koko, the gorilla who has learned—or who has been taught—American
Sign Language. Koko watches television. Koko watches Mister Rogers' Neighborhood,
and when Mister Rogers, in his sweater and sneakers, entered the place
where she lives, Koko immediately folded him in her long, black arms,
as though he were a child, and then … "She took my shoes off,
Tom," Mister Rogers said.
Koko was much bigger than Mister Rogers. She weighed 280 pounds, and
Mister Rogers weighed 143. Koko weighed 280 pounds because she is a gorilla,
and Mister Rogers weighed 143 pounds because he has weighed 143 pounds
as long as he has been Mister Rogers, because once upon a time, around
thirty-one years ago, Mister Rogers stepped on a scale, and the scale
told him that Mister Rogers weighs 143 pounds. No, not that he weighed
143 pounds, but that he weighs 143 pounds…. And so, every day, Mister
Rogers refuses to do anything that would make his weight change—he
neither drinks, nor smokes, nor eats flesh of any kind, nor goes to bed
late at night, nor sleeps late in the morning, nor even watches television—and
every morning, when he swims, he steps on a scale in his bathing suit
and his bathing cap and his goggles, and the scale tells him that he weighs
143 pounds. This has happened so many times that Mister Rogers has come
to see that number as a gift, as a destiny fulfilled, because, as he says,
"the number 143 means 'I love you.' It takes one letter to say 'I'
and four letters to say 'love' and three letters to say 'you.' One hundred
and forty-three. 'I love you.' Isn't that wonderful?"
THE FIRST TIME I CALLED MISTER ROGERS on the telephone, I woke him up
from his nap. He takes a nap every day in the late afternoon—just
as he wakes up every morning at five-thirty to read and study and write
and pray for the legions who have requested his prayers; just as he goes
to bed at nine-thirty at night and sleeps eight hours without interruption.
On this afternoon, the end of a hot, yellow day in New York City, he was
very tired, and when I asked if I could go to his apartment and see him,
he paused for a moment and said shyly, "Well, Tom, I'm in my bathrobe,
if you don't mind." I told him I didn't mind, and when, five minutes
later, I took the elevator to his floor, well, sure enough, there was
Mister Rogers, silver-haired, standing in the golden door at the end of
the hallway and wearing eyeglasses and suede moccasins with rawhide laces
and a flimsy old blue-and-yellow bathrobe that revealed whatever part
of his skinny white calves his dark-blue dress socks didn't hide. "Welcome,
Tom," he said with a slight bow, and bade me follow him inside, where
he lay down—no, stretched out, as though he had known me all his
life—on a couch upholstered with gold velveteen. He rested his head
on a small pillow and kept his eyes closed while he explained that he
had bought the apartment thirty years before for $11,000 and kept it for
whenever he came to New York on business for the Neighborhood. I sat in
an old armchair and looked around. The place was drab and dim, with the
smell of stalled air and a stain of daguerreotype sunlight on its closed,
slatted blinds, and Mister Rogers looked so at home in its gloomy familiarity
that I thought he was going to fall back asleep when suddenly the phone
rang, startling him. "Oh, hello, my dear," he said when he picked
it up, and then he said that he had a visitor, someone who wanted to learn
more about the Neighborhood. "Would you like to speak to him?"
he asked, and then handed me the phone. "It's Joanne," he said.
I took the phone and spoke to a woman—his wife, the mother of his
two sons—whose voice was hearty and almost whooping in its forthrightness
and who spoke to me as though she had known me for a long time and was
making the effort to keep up the acquaintance. When I handed him back
the phone, he said, "Bye, my dear," and hung up and curled on
the couch like a cat, with his bare calves swirled underneath him and
one of his hands gripping his ankle, so that he looked as languorous as
an odalisque. There was an energy to him, however, a fearlessness, an
unashamed insistence on intimacy, and though I tried to ask him questions
about himself, he always turned the questions back on me, and when I finally
got him to talk about the puppets that were the comfort of his lonely
boyhood, he looked at me, his gray-blue eyes at once mild and steady,
and asked, "What about you, Tom? Did you have any special friends
"Yes," he said. "Maybe a puppet, or a special toy, or
maybe just a stuffed animal you loved very much. Did you have a special
friend like that, Tom?"
"Yes, Mister Rogers."
"Did your special friend have a name, Tom?"
"Yes, Mister Rogers. His name was Old Rabbit."
"Old Rabbit. Oh, and I'll bet the two of you were together since
he was a very young rabbit. Would you like to tell me about Old Rabbit,