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Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood is 50 Years Old But All New to Me

August 1, 2018 By Kathie Z

Recently, it seems everywhere I look, Mr. Rogers is trending. On social media, friends post inspirational memes of Mister Rogers smiling wide, reminding people to “look for the helpers.” Others share videos from his show that promote kindness and inclusion. I remember thinking, Mr. Rogers? For real? Until recently, I hadn’t given Mr. Rogers or his neighborhood much thought. When I was a kid, I rarely visited “the Neighborhood.” I was a Captain Kangaroo kid. I loved the people who lived in the animal cracker box. And when ping pong balls fell on Mr. Moose? That was hysterical. As I got older, and a premium was placed on being cool, I tuned in to the PBS alternatives, The Electric Company and Zoom. I prided myself on doing a spot-on Rita Moreno, “Hey you guys!” impression and speaking fluent Ubabubby Dubabubby.

But all of the hoopla about Mister Rogers’ Neighborhoodturning 50 this year caught my attention. As did the man, himself, Fred Rogers. I started feeling that maybe I’d missed the boat on something special. Twice. First as a child, then as a parent. I’d prided myself on limiting my kids’ media consumption, choosing their TV carefully. My preschoolers watched Sesame Street, Teletubbies and Blue’s Clues. Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood had evaded my radar, altogether!

These past few weeks, I’ve done a deep dive into Mister Rogers, the man and the show. I started with Amy Hollingsworth’s book, The Simple Faith of Mister Rogers, an inspiring read that sheds light on the man behind the cardigan. And last week I jumped at the invitation to see the documentary, Won’t You Be My Neighbor? Both the book and the movie showed that Fred was Mister Rogers and Mister Rogers was Fred; a very special person, indeed.

As the credits rolled and my friend and I made our way to the parking lot, we marveled at what an amazing man Fred Rogers was and what a profoundly positive impact he had on generations of children, even if we couldn’t count ourselves in that number. I felt a twinge of sadness over what could have been. But we had been touched as adults. The last hour and a half had been incredibly impactful. As we talked, we decided that it was better to come to the Mister Rogers party late, rather than never having come at all.

Through his show, Mister Rogers gave visitors to his neighborhood countless gifts. Here are my favorites:

The gift of slowing down. Fred spoke slowly and purposefully, heeding the yellow traffic light that flashed as the opening song played. Wouldn’t we be more effective parents, teachers, communicators if we, too, slowed down? Chose our words carefully, held space, allowed time for our words to be truly heard and processed? We educators say that kids deserve the gift of time and we use the term, “wait time,” in our classrooms. Yet we jam our everyday lives with so many things to do, rush from one thing to another. I think we could all benefit from heeding the yellow light rather than trying to make it through the green.
The gift of expression. Fred talked a lot about feelings during his show. Because feelings matter. And children need to be taught how to express their feelings, be given the opportunity to discuss how they feel, even when the feelings are icky, uncomfortable for us, the adults. Allowing children to express their feelings in a safe environment helps our kids to feel safe, grow, become confident.
The gift of song. Fred, an accomplished musician, incorporated music into each episode. Because music helped him process his feelings, made him feel better as a child. I’d argue the power of music holds true. Walk through the halls of an elementary school; you can hear kindergarteners joyfully singing about vowel sounds, primary kids choral reading poetry, chanting math facts, and bigger kids persevering to solve challenging math problems while quiet instrumentals play in the background. Notice the driver in the car beside you singing along with the radio.
The gift of belonging. Speaking of music, Fred ended each show with a song, “You Are Special.” I love this song because of its simple message. This song does not teach, you are most special, or the only special one, as some critics have asserted. Instead, this song validates each of us for being who we are. And it reminds us that even though we are unique, which often makes us feel weird; we are all worthy, deserving of friendship and love.
The gift of wonderment. Mister Rogers asked questions, lots of questions. Of the viewer and the people who interacted with on his show. By doing so, he accomplished two goals: promoting curiosity for life-long learning while building connections through conversation.
The gift of validation. Perhaps the most important strategy we can take away from Mister Rogers is the importance of remembering what it was like to be a child. Many experts assert that this is why Mister Rogers was so effective in his work. Through the puppet Daniel Striped Tiger and even when speaking as himself, Fred demonstrated vulnerability and compassion. He acknowledged the difficulties of being a kid; whole-heartedly, respectfully.

Yesterday, I decided to watch an episode of Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood on pbs.org, see what I’d missed out on. In the episode, Fred explored the ocean with my daughter’s personal hero, oceanographer Sylvia Earle. I was transfixed as they talked about conservation and managing pollution. The decades-old episode that explores the responsibility of caring for our earth stood the test of time. So much so that I sent my grown daughter the link.

“Cool,” she texted in response. I felt the smile spread across my face. My millennial daughter’s response summed up the ripple effect of Mister Rogers, 50 years after he welcomed children to his neighborhood and land of make-believe. Cool.

©Kathie Z.

Lessons From a Mama Duck

July 25, 2018 By Kathie Z

I’ve always loved ducks. They’re silly and beautiful, graceful and awkward. The embodiment of cheerful contradiction. And the image of a line of ducklings waddling behind the mama duck? The epitome of maternal leadership, in my opinion.

My husband and I had just enjoyed a terrific breakfast at a sidewalk cafe where we met a friendly, young couple seated next to us. They, being recent transplants to the city, wanted to share some of their favorite insider gems. We told them we’d been visiting this upstate city for years, but our visits would probably be less frequent as our daughter had just graduated from the city’s college. Our conversation swayed away from the city’s many attractions to our daughter’s plans. The four of us engaged in a terrific talk about the gift of time and the need to take it while finding your place in the world.

Buoyed by our great talk, we set off on a walk through the city’s central park. Designed by the same architect of the Central Park, it’s a gem. After visiting my favorite sculptures, my husband and I headed towards the park’s exit. My attention was drawn back into the park, though, by a family of ducks swimming effortlessly in a stream. I walked towards the stream, watching as the mother duck hopped out of the stream and led her brood of ten, formed in an orderly line, across the walking path. The mama scaled the rocky slope with ease, leading the way for her ducklings. Halfway up, the first in line began to struggle. The second duckling stayed close while the remaining ducklings turned around and found an alternate route to their mama atop the hill.

I turned to my husband, “What will they do?” I was worried these two ducklings would be left behind. Realizing it could not walk up the rock, the duckling decided to leap. Its sibling followed suit. In moments, all of the ducklings had made their way to the top of the hill. I cheered a little yay for the ducklings. Their grit had prevailed and the duck family was again reunited under the cover of greenery.

Our duck celebration was short lived. We heard a high-pitched chirp from the stream below. Peeking down we saw a lone duckling swimming in the stream. We quickly figured out that this duckling was the eleventh duckling, separated from its brood!

I turned to my husband and said, ““Oh, no! What do you think will happen to this little one?”

“I have no idea,” he said.

We stood there at the side of the stream watching the duckling swim to and fro. Its chirps got louder as it became more agitated. We stood by helpless, but rooting for this little guy to be reunited with its family. From atop the hill, we heard the mama duck vocalizing to the duckling. At last the duckling seemed to hear her and it found a rock on the edge of the stream and made its way out of the stream. It took a step onto the path and chirped some more. It paused, listening for its mama’s reply.

Just as it appeared we were about to witness a happy reunion, a little boy walking on the path with his family trailing behind spied the duckling. “Look!” he shouted, pointing excitedly and running towards the duckling. “A baby duck! A baby duck!”

Instinctively, the duckling froze. As the little boy neared, it ran back to the stream and hopped back in the water. The little boy moved closer to the stream to get a better look as the duckling swam in the opposite direction, chirping louder.

Ugh. I was frustrated. The little boy’s innocent enthusiasm had triggered the duckling’s fight or flight response and it had chosen to flee.

“The duckling’s been separated from its family,” I said across the stream to the little boy and his mother. The mother took her son by the hand and led him away. I stood on the other side, watching. Feeling helpless.

Where was the mama duck? Why wasn’t she helping? The duckling swam towards a group of ducks swimming downstream; but they quacked loud quacks that seemed to say, “beat it!” The duckling frantically swam away, into a protected spot of stream and chirped even louder. The duckling was clearly exhausted.

I walked to the bench where my husband was sitting and I said, “I wish I could do something to help.” “I know,” he answered. We sat there quietly, watching. Would this little duckling try again? Or would it remain there at the edge of the stream, alone.

After some time, the mother duck emerged from her hiding spot atop the hill. She scurried down the hill followed by the other ducklings. She ran across the path and jumped into the stream. The other ducklings followed behind. The lone duckling swam quickly towards its mother and found its place in line with its brothers and sisters. All eleven followed their mama’s lead to the edge of the stream.

“Well, that was good,” I said smiling at my husband.

“Yup,” he smiled back. “I was beginning to think we might spend our entire day here,” he teased.

As we walked towards the park exit, I couldn’t help but make the connection between what we’d just witnessed and our breakfast conversation about the gift of time.

Watching the duckling’s struggle had made me so uncomfortable. I’d wanted to help, solve its problem, make everything all better. But I knew I couldn’t intervene with a wild animal. It was not my place.

And isn’t this the same struggle we face continually with our own children? Watching them struggle and lose their way triggers uneasiness. And all too often a desire to jump in “fix” what appears to be “broken.”

But that mama duck stayed put, remained engaged, but from a distance. The duckling needed time to struggle, space to try to figure things out on its own, learn. And she gave that gift of time before coming to lead the way.

“Wow,” I marveled. “That mother duck taught me a great lesson, just now.”

Regardless of age, our children are going to face challenges. And like that duckling, they may lose their way and cry out for help. But we, parents, must give our children the gift of time. Time to make mistakes, time to try, time to struggle, time to figure things out and find their own way. Although it can be uncomfortable, downright painful to witness, it’s our responsibility to step back and exercise patience. And when they’ve invested the necessary time? Tried a bunch of solutions? Found themselves in a corner, truly in need of help to finding their way back to their path? That’s when we can step in and lead.

©Kathie Z.

The Empty Nest

July 18, 2018 By Kathie Z

This weekend my husband and I had the good fortune of attending a friend’s wedding in Newport. It was a magical event full of love and joy. And when in America’s first resort town, the ocean calls. So yesterday, we spent our day at one of Newport’s beautiful beaches. Just the two of us.

When our girls were little, and our funds were very limited, day trips to the beach were one of our favorite things to do. Hours passed quickly while the girls played in the waves, sculpted sea creatures from sand and searched the shoreline for special rocks. These trips were magical in their simplicity and ease. Each day ended in contentment and the promise of a good night’s sleep. These were days that all was right in the world.

As the day wore on, more and more families filled the beach. A young family set up beside us.

“Look,” my husband whispered, “It’s Ariel,” referring to the little girl’s swimsuit. Ariel had been our daughter’s favorite Disney princess and her image had graced so many of her swimsuits. Instantly our conversation turned to our children. We shared memories of days at this very beach and discussed our kids’ current events.

We marveled at how quickly the time has gone. It seems like mere days that our children were in the single digits of life, frolicking in the waves, sporting images of their favorite princesses. For a brief moment, I felt a passing twinge of sadness, watching the family beside us play. I missed my girls who weren’t little girls anymore.

But the sadness was quickly replaced with excitement. My girls are young adults now, forging their way in a world that needs their special gifts and talents. Whose opportunities are endless.

And then it hit me. Although I didn’t consider it when my children were elementary school aged, playing make-believe and admiring princesses; letting go is precisely what we’ve been preparing our children for their entire lives. We’ve encouraged them to let go of our hands, frolic in the waves, and make their own way in the world bit by bit.

In a few weeks, the four of us will meet up in a house by the water. We’ll sit in the sand, search the shore for special rocks. Doubtless, my heart will be filled with gratitude. For I know these days pass quickly, too.

©Kathie Z.

Turning Points

April 14, 2018 By Kathie Z

Both of my daughters are at turning points. One is weeks away from graduating from college. The other weeks away from declaring her major. Both are faced with the question: What next?

This question mark is huge. There is absolutely no known answer to this question. Because it’s this question that leads to a slew of other questions. Which, when you share intense passion for creativity and are inherently square-peggish, can be inordinately anxiety producing.

I’ve spent a lot of time on the phone with my older daughter recently. She’s been feeling the pressure of the what next question. It seems everyone she meets from relatives to shop keepers want to know what her next steps are. Some even ask, “What are you going to do?” or “Do you have a job yet?”

The truth of the matter is, I don’t want her to take a “job.” She is an artist. A gifted painter. Her work is beautiful, impactful. And she’s been told by people in the art world, not her mother, people who actually know things that she can make a living as an artist. And live independently. Which is my dream for her.

Her younger sister texted last night, wanting to talk. Which is a big deal. My younger daughter is a very closed-mouth social butterfly. She’d make an amazing undercover operative, we joke. She’s a vault. Except her emotions have a limit and her voice gives her away. She too, is at a turning point. She’s realized she can no longer avoid pursuing her passion, photography. She was upset about changing her academic focus; veering from dependable to unpredictable, disappointing us in the process.

I told her I got it. I did the same thing as a college sophomore. I realized that studying business was not for me. I wasn’t interested in balance sheets or debits and credits. Plus, I was a really bad business student, only good at the “fluff” courses that tapped into my creativity. Numbers numbed me and I over-thank everything. Suffice it to say, I still recall the teary conversation I had with my mother all those years ago when I told her I wanted to study literature instead. And with my father’s blessing, I declared myself an English major, minoring in dance, veering away from a predictable profession.

Until I’d spoken with my younger daughter last night, I’d all but forgotten about the stress of declaring a major in college. When I told her to declare her art major, I felt a heavy burden evaporate. Problems grow to enormous proportions in our imaginations when we keep them to ourselves. Turning points arise when we need them, not when we want them.

The irony of my children being in such synchronicity is not lost on me. They’ve both been feeling the pressure of meeting the expectations of people who don’t matter. Last night I was blunt with my younger daughter. I interrupted her mid-explanation as to why she no longer wanted to pursue the major she had previously (confusing to me) declared. She had to take a course in which she pursued a passion project related to the field. She was stumped for a topic. I told her matter-of-factly, “That’s because it’s not your passion.” She was taken aback a little. I pressed on. “What would make you happy?”

“Photography,” she said through tears.

“Then do it,” I said. “That was the plan, anyway.”

Which is the honest-to-goodness truth.

My oldest daughter picked up a crayon before a pencil. I can’t remember a time she hasn’t been drawing. And my younger daughter became a photographer the moment she picked up her first point and shoot. Both of my children are incredible artists. Who see the world in a different way than most. And the world needs the beauty and perspective artists provide.

I applaud their courage to choose the path of authenticity and creative expression. They’ve chosen challenging, creative fields, but I know they’ll both be fine. Will their chosen passions bring the creature comforts they’ve grown accustomed to? I don’t know. Only time will tell.

But I do know their work is just as meaningful as any other traditional type of work they could choose. I also know, if they choose to turn later on down the road, elect a more traditional path, that will be o.k., too. Their creativity will never die; it’s an integral part of each of them. At this turning point in the road, I want my girls to know what it took me so many years of suppressing my own creative impulses to learn; your work is a reflection of who you are, not the definition.

Tesser Well

March 7, 2018 By Kathie Z

In 1977 I was ten. And I was most definitely not cool. Nope. I was the kid who would likely be labeled as “quirky”-that ambiguous, catch-all phrase for kids who are different. Kids who see the world through a lens uniquely theirs.

In the fourth grade, my otherness became official. A handful of classmates and myself were identified as “multi-talented” and placed in a special academic enrichment program; an experiment in education that shaped the way I see the world and myself.

My classmates and I looked forward to Thursdays, our weekly learning adventure with our funky, brilliant teacher. She was unlike any teacher we’d ever known, any adult for that matter. With long, curly, red hair that hung half-way down her back, aviator glasses and buffalo plaid flannel shirts she broke the mold. She was hip, modern, cool. She spoke rhythmically, enunciating syllables, used elevated vocabulary and encouraged us to do the same. And she listened. Fully.

This teacher was like an enigma and we students were captivated. She enthusiastically instructed us to be imaginative, think in novel ways, encouraged us to pursue inspiration, soar. It was in this classroom, working with this gifted teacher for a few hours each week, that I temporarily morphed from a silent, shy student to a bold, carefree, confident kid.

One of my favorite parts of Thursdays was read aloud time. It was during this time that I discovered my favorite book, A Wrinkle in Time. As my teacher sat upon a desk, reading aloud, everything seemed to fall away, disappear. The story had sucked us in. And I was hooked. So were my best-friend-classmates, the Brown twins.

When summer came, we read and reread the entire Meg Murry series. We spent countless hours discussing the books. We were a ten-year old book club before book clubs were even a thing. All because of Meg. Smart, angry, determined, complicated Meg. Who was lost, struggling to find her place in the Universe. Who was the hero of the story. The perfectly imperfect character. My how we got her. Because Meg Murry was us and we were her, in a kinda sorta way.

Then one day that summer, Mrs. Brown, mom of the aforementioned twins, learned that Madeline L’Engle, our favorite author, would be doing an event for kids at a Hartford department store. Of course, we had to go!

I was so excited as my friends and I rode the elevator to the eleventh floor of the department store. What would she be like, we wondered? I privately hoped she would be a bit like Mrs. Whatsit, my favorite of the otherworldly beings in A Wrinkle in Time. Although she didn’t fit the description in the book, Ms. L’Engle did not disappoint. She had short, gray hair cut into a pixie cut and kind eyes. She seemed like a genuinely nice person.

As she explained her writing process to the handful of bookish kids who’d assembled, her eyes sparkled. We knew the cool kids were at the movies seeing Star Wars and we didn’t care. We were here with one of our real-life heroes, being inspired. Ms. L’Engle talked about imagination, story ideas, and explained her writing process. As she spoke, she sketched an elephant on chart paper (it was an idea for a book she was working on). She gave my friends the sketch and then took some questions before signing books.

I chose my favorite, A Wrinkle in Time, and waited on line. When it was my turn, Ms. L’Engle looked me in the eyes and asked my name, inquired about its spelling. She smiled as she inscribed my book. She looked into my eyes as she handed me the book. “Remember. You can do anything.” Silently, I nodded in agreement.

I walked away, opened the cover and read. Tesser well, Kathie.

That moment remains one of the most special of all of my childhood memories. And my Dell Yearling copy of A Wrinkle in Time remains one of my most prized possessions. How powerful and empowering Ms. L’Engle’s words were on the page and in person.

As A Wrinkle in Time hits the theaters this week, I hope a whole new generation of special kids discover a new hero, Meg Murry. And I hope they read Ms. L’Engle’s book and hear the message and are inspired.

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