"My wife and I were blessed to
orbit the wonderful world of Robin Williams. His passing one year ago
left a massive void for us, but happy memories of him help mend the
holes in our hearts.
Robin
wasn’t a teacher or a preacher. He didn’t sermonize or lecture anyone.
Instead, he taught by example. Here are a few lessons I learned from
him.
Be different.
Calling Robin ordinary would be as insulting as calling Einstein a
smart-alecky know-it-all. Nonconformity was his keystone. Although he
respected the fashionably cool and aloof crowd, Robin identified with
the eccentrics and outliers.
His
lifelong interests included bicycling, video games, graphic novels, and
collecting imaginative toys. For any other middle-aged man, those
boyish hobbies might raise eyebrows. Robin didn’t care. He was who he
was, and the world loved him for it.
Give back.
Few celebrities were so generous. Comic Relief, Challenged Athletes,
and St. Jude’s Children’s Research Hospital were among Robin’s favorite
worthy causes. He often handed out whatever cash he had in his wallet to
homeless people on the streets. When his wallet was empty, he’d borrow money from me so he could give that to the homeless, too.
His
USO shows for the troops in Iraq and Afghanistan were legendary.
Military personnel often wrote him to say how seeing Robin Williams at
their base was the highlight of their tour of duty. He entertained even
when he was ill and his voice was giving out, and he always stayed until
every last soldier got a photo or an autograph. He gave back to fans. After
comedy concerts, Robin waded into the throngs of stage door autograph
seekers and signed his name to whatever was thrust in his face. In
Scotland, a cueball bald man approached him and said, “Mr. Williams,
sign my head!” Robin shrugged, took the fan’s felt-tip marker, and
scribbled his signature on the fellow’s bare scalp.
Live for the moment.
Robin had a Zen quality, a natural ability to zero in on whatever was
at hand. Improvisational comedy requires you to have that kind of focus,
and nobody was more alive in the moment onstage than Robin. Performing
improv with him was like trying to keep pace with a hurricane.
He
also lived in the moment by enjoying life’s simple pleasures. One
night, my wife and I took him to dinner at a hole-in-the-wall Mexican
family restaurant. Nothing fancy, wooden booths, dim lighting, decent
food. He loved it and thanked us repeatedly for taking him there, as if
it were the most joyous experience of his day. He had that sort of big
reaction to small things all the time. He could get excited over a
breakfast of scrambled eggs.
On
occasions, he stood on his patio overlooking San Francisco Bay soaking
in the sunshine and cool breeze, and he would say, “What an amazing
day!” He truly meant it. Robin appreciated the simple joys of life. In
that regard, he really knew how to seize the day.
Be kind. Comedians can be cruel sometimes, but Robin was a gentle soul. He was self-deprecating, and
his personal foibles were the launch pad of many of his best comedy
bits. But he made fun of other people’s faults, too, and he agonized
over punchlines that seemed too mean. Making anyone unhappy gave him
genuine distress.
On
Christmas mornings, Robin visited the children’s ward of UCSF Medical
Center. He entered unannounced to give small toys and autographs to the
poor boys and girls stuck in hospital beds on the holiday. We snapped
Polaroid photos of him at each bedside, and he took his time greeting
every child, even preemies in their incubators. There was no fanfare, no
forewarning, no announcement to the news media. For Robin, it was just
another quiet act of kindness.
Have humility.
Strangers who met him for the first time were often taken aback to find
him quiet and somewhat shy. In private, he could be modest and
retiring. Some pompous entertainers might
grumble about small crowds and small venues. Robin didn’t mind. In the
early 80s as his fame skyrocketed, he frequently performed at a
closet-sized comedy club in San Francisco called the Holy City Zoo.
Maximum occupancy was about 95 people. He loved the place. In
preparation for his 2008 Weapons of Self Destruction world tour, he
appeared unannounced at an even smaller dive in the Mission District
that only had fifty folding chairs. To warm up for shows in London’s
West End, we found ourselves in a suburban club that was an underground
toilet. Literally. It was below ground and used to be a public restroom.
Robin liked it.
Despite his
stardom, he didn’t require bodyguards or an entourage to shadow him.
Wherever we traveled with him, Robin was likely to wander off by
himself. He might’ve been the world’s most unpretentious superstar.
Have fun.
Robin treasured the camaraderie of comedians and loved trading riffs
with them onstage and off. Keeping pace with him could put even the most
self-assured comics off their game, but he never meant to intimidate.
He just wanted to laugh.
That
was true with everyone, not just comedians. Robin loved to laugh with
his family and friends, with his fellow actors, film crews, strangers,
with anyone he met.
Oh, the
joy whenever Jonathan Winters visited. He and Robin loved playing off
one another, adopting and then shedding characters, two grown boys
making each other laugh. Robin called Jonathan his Buddha, and watching
them together was nirvana.
During
Robin’s last comedy tour, at the end of every performance, crowds
sprang to their feet to give him standing ovations, and palpable
electricity filled the arenas. As he came offstage, Robin would let out a
high-pitched giggle and repeated the word, “Wow!” He acted like a
teenager who just came off a thrilling carnival ride. Even after
thousands of live performances, he knew how to have fun.
Finally, he left us with one last lesson. Death comes to everyone, but
how you perish isn’t as important as how you live. Nobody ever lived
like my pal Robin Williams."
by Dan Spencer
