Beautiful Day

I went to see the film, Beautiful Day, the film about the life of Fred Rogers.  Only it wasn’t; not in the way I expected.  Rather, it was a story about how Mr. Rogers affected the life of a journalist assigned to interview him; a man who was struggling with his own demons of unresolved grief over his mother’s death and anger at the father who abandoned him at such a dark time.  I was not expecting the emotional response the film elicited from me.

Three moments in the film were the most pivotal for me.  The first, Mr. Rogers asked the journalist if he thought his mother would be proud of him. My mother died when I was 23, a sophomore in college.  She wasn’t there when I, in the words of my father, “finally graduated from college after 14 years.”  He was referring to my Ph.D. graduation from Emory University, where I received my degree in Religion, Ethics, and Society, while also working as a community organizer in public housing projects in Atlanta.  Would this have made my mother proud?  I think so.  As I wrote in the preface to my dissertation, my mother was the one who pushed me to complete my confirmation in the Catholic Church, and to finish high school even though she had to drop out to work to help with her family’s finances.  I often imagined her smiling when her Baptist minister son, returned to the Catholic fold by teaching at a Catholic and Jesuit college, where I have taught for almost 30 years.

The second moment was more troubling.  Because of his anger and resentment at his father’s abandonment, when the journalist’s father tried to reconnect with his son at his sister’s wedding, he didn’t call him dad, but by his first name.  As I have written elsewhere, I never called my mother mom but Kay, her first name.  It was driven initially by resentment toward her, for the over 20 years she wasn’t home because she worked second shift at a candy factory to support the family.  I too felt abandoned, seeing her only on weekends for most of my childhood; and those times with her were not the warmest mother-son affairs.  I was too young, too self-absorbed to notice the sacrifices she was making for the sake of her family.  When the resentment subsided after going into the military, I was too used to calling her Kay and can’t remember a time as an adult when I called her mom.

In the film, Mr. Rogers guided the journalist toward a reconciliation with his father.  In this way, the film was about Mr. Rogers, demonstrating the kind of person he was around everyone he met.  The grace the journalist received at the hand of Mr. Rogers was his ability to resolve the anger he felt and, as his father lay dying, once again called him dad.  Hearing this, I wept; not because the two had reconciled, although it was a beautiful moment in the film.  Rather, I cried because my mother would never hear me call her mom as an adult.  She was comatose the last time I saw her alive, the result of the loss of oxygen to her brain from a heart attack.  She died 10 days later.  I had chosen to call her Kay; a decision I have regretted every day since.

The third moment in the film was one of humility and gratitude.  Sitting at a restaurant with the journalist, Mr. Rogers asked if they could spend a minute thinking of all the people in their lives who had brought them into being, who had helped to make them the persons they were today.  The entire restaurant heard the request and sat silently reflecting on his request.  So did the entire theater.  No one talked, no babies cried, no cell phones were checked.  We sat collectively thinking of the people who had brought us into being the persons we were today.  I was at the film with my wife of 40 years and so she was the first who came to my mind.  I wouldn’t be who I am today without her love, her support, and her patience.  I thought of my son, who helped me to become a father, teaching me how to be nurturing, caring, and patient.  I thought of my mother, my father, and my family, most of whom I had spent time with recently at my nephew’s wedding.  I thought of my teachers:  Mrs. Kelly, who noticed I was having trouble hearing in second grade which led to having the operation I needed to save my hearing.  Mrs. Cody, who pushed me to do my best academically so that I graduated eighth grade first in my class.  Dr. Drayer, who taught me that it was fine to question and to doubt and yet still be a person of faith.  Glen Stassen, who demonstrated how one can be both an academic and an activist working for justice.

I thought of the people I had met and worked with over the years:  Jack and Gladys Martin, Baptist missionaries in Thailand who welcomed me into the family and nurtured my budding faith.  Mrs. Sanford, President of the Perry Homes Tenant Association, whose life embodied a commitment of service to others in her community.  My colleagues and students at Le Moyne College, who helped shape the kind of teacher and friend I have become. 

The list of people who came to mind went on and on, all in just one minute.  I experienced a deep feeling of gratitude and humility realizing how much of my being was interconnected with all these others who loved, challenged, and continue to inspire me.

In the end, I not only learned something of the kind of person Mr. Rogers was (masterfully portrayed by Tom Hanks), but I also experienced the affect his life has had on those with whom he has come in contact, whether it was the intent of the filmmakers or not (and I believe it was).  And while the emotions I felt at the end of the film were both warm and raw, I came away thankful for another Beautiful Day.