What a lunchtime walk with Mister Rogers taught me about love, courage, integrity, and fatherhood.
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We stepped outside the studios of WQED into the warm sunshine. Fred Rogers—wearing a navy blazer, bow tie, and his signature blue sneakers—looked at the sky and then to me and said, “Let’s leave the car and walk to lunch.” Since my days as a graduate student immersed in the study of children and family television, Fred Rogers had been my graduate advisor, confidant, spiritual and professional mentor, and friend. Now, some twenty-five years after our first visit, we were once again engaged in a conversation about what we both loved most—creating nourishing spaces for children and families.
Though we walked briskly, our conversation was relaxed.
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I relished every opportunity to be with Fred and made it a point to meet with him whenever I was in “Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood” (which, geographically speaking, was Pittsburgh, PA.) To me it was Holy ground, which on that late spring day we were traversing on foot through a residential neighborhood to a local cafe.
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Everything about Fred Rogers was easeful, unhurried, and slower-paced—everything that is, except for his stride, which was lively even for me, a considerably younger man. “Must get a pair of those sneakers,” I thought.
Though we walked briskly, our conversation was relaxed. We talked about parenthood and as usual I was full of questions. I remember asking, “What do you think young children need most from their fathers?” Fred always listened intently, noticing details, and mentally cataloguing every nuance. As often happened, Fred’s first response was a turnabout –a reassuring affirmation. “I would be interested in what you think, Vince. You have two wonderful children. I’m sure you must have a sense of what unique gifts they need most from you.” Hmmm. No top ten lists. In his own gentle way, he was inviting me to explore my question from the inside out, trusting my own instincts as a man and a parent.
Thinking about his words as we headed down the sidewalk, I happened to glance down at a blue baby pacifier lying on the pavement. Remaining in stride, I stepped over it and kept going.
Fred noticed it and stopped.
Then picking it up he said, “It looks like someone has lost something very important.” Before I could nod in agreement, he turned to the nearest house, marched up the steps and knocked on the door. In a few seconds a young woman appeared and, after the initial shock of seeing America’s favorite neighbor at her door, she smiled immediately and exclaimed, “Mister… Rogers??? What a surprise!”
Fred smiled and showed her the pacifier. “Do you know whose this might be?” The woman answered, “Yes, that’s my baby’s.” Fred smiled, “Oh good,” handing it to her. “I knew there might be someone who would really miss it.” They hugged, she thanked Mister Rogers, and we resumed our walk.
But there was a long silence. I didn’t speak because I knew I was witness to a Holy moment. I was on Holy ground. Fred didn’t force a conversation. If I had learned anything about Fred Rogers, it was that he knew the power of silence, and he must have known something had touched me deeply. Moments later, we arrived at the restaurant, and we resumed our talk about parenthood, but nothing that we discussed seemed as important as the moment in which I had witnessed the answer to the question I sought—not in words, but in the simple, spontaneous gesture of kindness in which Fred sought to meet the need of a baby whose face he would never see.
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In the years since Fred’s passing, hundreds of people have asked me, “What was Mister Rogers’ secret? Was he really that way with children?” Scholars have dissected his programs seeking to discover what “techniques” he employed. Parents have longed to know exactly the right words to say when confronted with a childhood challenge.
It sounds so obvious, but too often we forget that the most important tool we have as a father isn’t what we know but how we show up.
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But my “Holy ground” moment with Fred that day revealed that the wealth of knowledge he possessed about children and their development held even greater power because of his commitment to fully be the kind of person he knew himself to be. Yes, the Mister Rogers that America saw onscreen was the same man off-screen. Faithful to his deepest values, Rogers was wholly committed and relentlessly disciplined, not only in the unfolding of his authentic self, but also in creating a loving space in which others might discover their uniqueness.
Above all, he possessed the courage to love completely. Many will remember his acceptance speech upon receiving an Emmy Lifetime Achievement award. Instead of reading off a list of people to thank, Rogers invited the audience to take ten seconds to silently think of the people in their lives who had helped to “love them into being.” Pure courage. All of the “how to’s” in the world cannot replace the simple, powerful presence of a caring adult who is committed to growing and becoming.
What can we learn about fatherhood from Mister Rogers? There is power and integrity in the man who gives attention to the kind of person he wishes to be and is guided by the values that support that choice. It sounds so obvious, but too often we forget that the most important tool we have as a father isn’t what we know but how we show up. Sometimes it’s something as simple as walking up a sidewalk to return something important, or sending a handwritten note instead of a text message. At other times, it’s turning off the TV and listening—really listening—to a child’s story. Personal growth is a lifelong commitment that not only benefits us, but also offers a safe and empowering presence for our children as they begin their own exploration and mastery of themselves and their world. Often that is just the “Holy ground” our children need as they seek solid footing at the beginning of their journey.
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Flickr/ Rollins College
I enjoyed reading this article very much, Vince. It doesn’t surprise me to learn Fred Rogers was the same man on and off the screen. He always seemed completely believable to me. Thank you.