march 21. 2003
HUMOR
S
o I’m talking with my friend Bobo about
the recent death of Fred Rogers when he
says to me, “When I was a kid, I wasn’t
allowed to watch Mr. Rogers."
Wasn’t allowed to watch Mr. Rogers? What
kind of flicking-cigarettes-at-your-head, child-
services-arriving-in-the-dead-of-night parents
don’t allow their kid to watch Mr. Rogers? Did
they keep him in a cardboard box in the base
ment, too?
“My dad thought he was gay," Bobo says.
Gay?! OK, purse-carrying Tinky Winky I
can understand. The creepy purple dinosaur,
sure. But Mr. Rogers?
The Far-Out Right would have us believe that
there’s a vast gay conspiracy determined to warp
the young minds of America. But I’ve got news
for them: Most gay men don’t give a rip about the
young minds of America. Forget Tinky Winky;
most of us are just interested in Hanky Panky.
The latest target is Sponge Boh SquarePants.
OK, I admit, the little guy makes Christopher
Lowell ltx)k positively hutch by comparison,
hut he is most certainly not a homosexual. He’s
a sponge, for chrissake.
SpongeBob, Tinky Winky, Mr. Rogers:
What is it about these characters that’s so
threatening to conservatives?
Is it their gentleness, which has always been
considered subversive in our “my weapons of
mass destruction are bigger than yours” culture?
Maybe. Because no one was gentler or more
subversive than Mr. Rogers.
Wait a sec. The guy in the faggy sneakers
subversive? Perhaps I’d better explain.
I went to college in Pittsburgh, where Mr.
Rogers' Neighborhcxxl was filmed, and I once
found myself seated near him on a People’s
Express flight home. (For those of you who
A sad day in the neighborhood
Mr. Rogers, gay men and me
“Why, where
are you going?"
Fred answered,
and promptly
invited Billy to
join them for
dinner, much to
the bewilderment
of the hostess.
On the way
hack to the hotel,
Fred sat in front so he
could find out more about Billy.
When he discovered they’d
be passing Billy’s house, Fred
suggested they stop in to meet
Billy’s parents.
“So there we all are,” Lisa
says, “getting out of a limo in the
middle of West Roxbury, Mass., to
meet the driver’s parents. We
walk in the door and there’s
Billy’s dad coming down the
stairs in his bathrobe, a cigarette
dangling from his lips. He takes
one look at Fred and yells: ‘Holy
shit! You’re Mr. Rogers!’ ”
Think about it. How would you
react if you were sitting around on a
Friday night and Mr. Rogers came wandering
in your front dcx)r? Talk about visiting the
Neighborhcxxl of Make-Believe.
“Then suddenly it was like the whole
THE GOSPEL
ACCORDING
TO MARC
b y M arc Acito
don’t remember Peoples Express, it was the
first no-frills airline. It was a good deal until
the rubber hands broke.)
We disembarked at the same time and, after
making the insightful observation that he was
indeed Mr. Rogers, I found I had absolutely
nothing to say to the man.
He took one look at my off-the-shoulder
sweatshirt and leg warmers (it was the 1980s,
OK, give me a break) and politely inquired as
to whether I’d seen Torch Song Trilogy. “I hear
that Harvey Fierstein is awfully good,” he said.
T hat’s right, my one and only conversation
with Mr. Rogers was about a drag queen.
couple of years later my roommate, Lisa,
got an internship on Mr. Rogers’ Neighbor -
hcxxl, which began a lifelong friendship.
Her most cherished memory is of a trip to
Boston they made together for a concert. (No,
not to see Metallica, he was doing a children’s
concert.) Upon arriving at the fancy home of a
WGBH executive, the limo driver, Billy,
turned to Fred and asked when he should
return to pick them up.
neighborhood showed up,” Lisa says. “People
brought cookies and Fred was playing the
piano...it was just magical.”
Billy and his family never forgot that night
(who could?), hut apparently Fred didn’t either,
because a few years later when he learned Billy
was dying of AIDS, he took time out from his
vacation to call the hospital.
Think about it. You’re on your deathbed,
and Mr. Rogers calls to comfort you. That
indeed is a beautiful day in the neighborhcxxl.
I don’t know
what Mr. Rogers
said to Billy, hut
I’m pretty certain
it was the kind
of thing he said
to all of us for
more than 30 years:
“You make
every day a
special day by
just being you.
There’s no one
in the world
exactly like you.
People can like
you just the way
you are.”
No won
der the
^ bigots are so
0 ^ threatened.
And that,
my friends,
is The Gospel According to Marc. JH
®
MARC A cito still visits the Neighborhood of
Make-Believe. Write him at marcacito@attbi.com.
liH
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