For most, the highlight of one’s adult life might be
marriage, birth or a milestone trip to South America. For me, it was watching
40 teenage girls standing on their desks at the end of my final English class
and saying to me: ‘Oh Captain, my Captain’.
I love my kids, my man and the fun jobs I’ve done, but
nothing before or since has moved me the way that experience did – and that’s
the reason I cried when actor Robin Williams died last week.
It’s a modern conundrum, this worship and love of
celebrities, as though we knew them over cocktails, or could so easily have
been friends, had Hollywood not been in the way. It’s illogical and we know it
– especially when we grow up and can’t blame our flutter-eyed fandom on
hormones or a passing crush.
But there is a vital and telling difference between
temporary devotion to a superstar for his looks and presence on-screen and a
lifelong appreciation of someone who sold us a story that becomes our own – not
just in adolescence, but forever.
There’s been a massive outpouring of grief over Williams’
demise, possibly more so because he took his own life, according to the papers.
If the clown who made us laugh so much was that unhappy, where does that leave
us? There are very few ordinary people who can live as largely, loudly and
successfully as he did and yet, even that wasn’t enough.
Psychologists have analysed this global sadness over the
past few days and concluded that it’s perfectly sane and normal to be taking
his death so personally – Robin Williams was the type of chap who educated,
entertained and touched people on a grand scale; much as a beloved older
brother might, or a popular politician. Acting just happened to be the method
he used.
After watching Dead Poets Society, a sentimental,
dramatic interpretation of teenage individualism, I incorporated Robin
Williams’ life philosophy in that film as my own. He played an English teacher
named Mr Keating – and if you were lucky enough at school, you may have
encountered a Mr Keating too, as we did. On our last day in Anne Peltason’s class, we stood on our
desks and said, ‘Oh Captain, my Captain’. A few years later, at varsity,
friends and I started our own Dead Poets Society in honour of the same film.
And finally, when I became an English teacher for a while and taught that film
as part of the visual media syllabus, my own pupils stood on their desks,
letting me know that I’d succeeded at being Mr Keating, too.
Throughout my life, since first encountering Robin Williams
as that character, I have tirelessly encouraged anyone who’ll listen to think
for themselves; to practise carpe diem – seize the day. Thanks to social
media, I know that the majority of my former pupils do that now, remembering
what I told them as captain of their ship.
And that’s why I’m so sad about this death – because quite
often, it’s those who leave us too soon who have taught us how to live.
