Won’t You Be My Neigh­bor? a doc­u­men­tary film by Mor­gan Neville

The Good Neigh­bor: The Life and Work of Fred Rogers by Maxwell King

The New York Review of Books - - Contents - Robert Sul­li­van

Won’t You Be My Neigh­bor? a doc­u­men­tary film by Mor­gan Neville.

The Good Neigh­bor:

The Life and Work of Fred Rogers by Maxwell King.

Abrams, 405 pp., $30.00

In his own re­mem­brances, Fred Rogers’s child­hood was a lit­tle sad, with a lov­ing but over­pro­tec­tive mother and a fa­ther whose life was de­voted to the man­u­fac­tur­ing busi­ness he hoped his son would take over. Born in 1928 in La­trobe, Penn­syl­va­nia, an in­dus­trial sub­urb of Pitts­burgh, and raised in a co­coon of wealth, the cre­ator of the tele­vi­sion show Mis­ter Rogers’ Neigh­bor­hood was of­ten con­fined in­doors due to asthma or fever. “I had to make up a lot of my own fun,” Rogers says in an in­ter­view in­cluded in Mor­gan Neville’s re­cent doc­u­men­tary film, Won’t You Be My Neigh­bor? When he was ten, his grand­mother bought him the Stein­way con­cert grand piano that he would play his en­tire life. “Mu­sic was my first lan­guage,” he says. He found that he could ex­press his emo­tions with notes: “I could lit­er­ally laugh or cry or be very an­gry through the ends of my fin­gers.”

Fol­low­ing two years at Dart­mouth, Rogers trans­ferred to Rollins Col­lege in Florida to study mu­sic, af­ter which he planned to be­come a Pres­by­te­rian min­is­ter. But in 1951, while home dur­ing his se­nior year, he ex­pe­ri­enced “this new thing called tele­vi­sion.” As he re­calls in the film, “I saw peo­ple throw­ing pies in each other’s faces and I thought, ‘This could be a won­der­ful tool. Why is it be­ing used this way?’” Thanks to stock the fam­ily held in RCA, which owned NBC, Rogers’s fa­ther got him a job in New York, work­ing var­i­ously with Kate Smith and Ar­turo Toscanini. Two years later, his fa­ther lured him back to Pitts­burgh, where a fam­ily friend was start­ing up a pub­lic TV sta­tion.

Pub­lic broad­cast­ing ap­pealed to the min­is­ter in Rogers: he was con­cerned that profit-driven net­works like NBC di­luted arts pro­gram­ming, and he en­vi­sioned pro­gram­ming for young peo­ple with less slap­stick, more mean­ing. By 1954, Rogers was pro­duc­ing The Chil­dren’s Cor­ner, writ­ing mu­sic and songs with his co-host, Josie Carey, and in­ter­spers­ing their per­for­mances with free ed­u­ca­tional films. One day, when a brit­tle reel broke on live tele­vi­sion, Rogers poked a pup­pet through a back­drop and cre­ated the soft-spo­ken char­ac­ter of Daniel Striped Tiger, who through his own ex­pres­sions of self­doubt gave voice to chil­dren’s fears. Daniel be­came a cen­tral fix­ture of that early show and the ones that fol­lowed. Over time, Rogers be­came im­pa­tient with the ca­su­al­ness of The Chil­dren’s Cor­ner. His fam­ily’s wealth al­lowed him to quit in 1961 and go full-time to the Pitts­burgh The­o­log­i­cal Sem­i­nary. He re­turned to TV in 1963, to the Cana­dian Broad­cast­ing Com­pany in Toronto, where he de­vel­oped the pro­to­type of Mis­ter Rogers’ Neigh­bor­hood, which moved back to Pitts­burgh and pub­lic broad­cast­ing in 1968. “It seems to me that there are dif­fer­ent themes in life,” he says at the start of Neville’s film, “and one of my main jobs...is... through the mass me­dia for chil­dren, to help chil­dren through some of the dif­fi­cult mod­u­la­tions of life.”

Now, fifty years af­ter the first episode aired, we are still mod­u­lat­ing through ver­sions of Fred Rogers. Chil­dren of a cer­tain age know him as the guy in the suit who switched into a cardi­gan at each show’s start, singing, “Won’t you be my neigh­bor?” Off-screen Rogers was hard to know, or dif­fi­cult to cat­e­go­rize. He was a life­long tee­to­taler who owned a stake in Vege­tar­ian Times and used salty lan­guage with his own kids, though only in the pup­pet voice of Lady Elaine Fairchilde. Cowork­ers re­mem­ber Rogers as both zany—danc­ing across the set with an in­flat­able sex doll they had hid in his closet—and im­pe­ri­ous, as when he rep­ri­manded an ac­tor who kindly sug­gested to Hen­ri­etta Pussy­cat that she not cry, some­thing Rogers would never sug­gest to a child. Neville’s film avoids much bi­o­graph­i­cal de­tail, trad­ing rigor for nos­tal­gia and ha­giog­ra­phy. Mean­while, a new book, Maxwell King’s The Good Neigh­bor: The Life and Work of Fred Rogers, of­fers the al­most wacky de­tails of his life (King re­ports, for ex­am­ple, that the fam­ily chauf­feur taught him to fly as a teen) but only hints at the ten­sion within Rogers, both the du­ti­ful son of an in­dus­tri­al­ist and a sen­si­tive com­poser de­voted to the idea that the world chil­dren live in is fun­da­men­tally dif­fer­ent from the world in­hab­ited by adults. He con­trolled ev­ery as­pect of his show in the mold of an iron-willed CEO but man­aged si­mul­ta­ne­ously to or­ches­trate a the­ater com­pany–like TV neigh­bor­hood full of ac­tors and mu­si­cians that was a pro­gres­sive and col­lab­o­ra­tive oper­a­tion, open to any­thing, as­sum­ing Rogers ap­proved.

Both film and book cite Rogers as a chil­dren’s tele­vi­sion orig­i­nal, but the book aims higher, re­peat­edly liken­ing Rogers to a well-known first-cen­tury Jewish preacher and re­li­gious leader. This com­pli­cated com­par­i­son is likely rooted in the fact that, while in sem­i­nary, Rogers pro­posed his half-hour TV pro­gram as a min­istry, his young view­ers the con­gre­gants. It was a tough pill for the sem­i­nary’s Pres­by­te­rian elders to swal­low, but when they re­lented, they pointed him to Mar­garet Mc­Far­land, a psy­chol­o­gist who ran the Univer­sity of Pitts­burgh’s Ar­se­nal Fam­ily and Chil­dren’s Cen­ter and was at the core of a Pitts­burgh-based group of child­hood de­vel­op­men­tal re­searchers, in­clud­ing Ben­jamin Spock, T. Berry Brazel­ton, and Erik Erik­son. She was a pi­o­neer in de­scrib­ing the rich com­plex­ity of a child’s in­te­rior life, and in see­ing chil­dren’s de­vel­op­ment against the back­ground of their re­la­tion­ships with oth­ers, es­pe­cially par­ents.

Rogers and Mc­Far­land shared what

King calls “a sen­si­tiv­ity to the feel­ings of other peo­ple.” When Rogers spent time with chil­dren in Mc­Far­land’s preschool classes, the chil­dren saw a soul mate, as did Mc­Far­land. “There was a lit­tle girl at the Ar­se­nal whose bird died,” Mc­Far­land said. “And when Fred came with his pup­pets, and she told Fred about the death of the bird . . . she found it ur­gent to tell each of the pup­pets about the death of the ca­nary.” Rogers saw Mc­Far­land’s think­ing as a per­fect foun­da­tion for his own cre­ativ­ity, and min­istry. To­gether they de­vel­oped pro­grams around, for in­stance, a child’s fear of con­trol­ling bodily flu­ids, with Rogers show­ing films of wa­ter­falls and streams be­ing dammed. Un­til she died in 1988, Rogers met with Mc­Far­land weekly, tele­phoned her daily, and even stopped scenes mid-shot to con­sult her. The pro­gram he cre­ated had two neigh­bor­hoods: one life­like, in­clud­ing the stage-set home into which he wel­comed his TV vis­i­tors, the other a make-be­lieve king­dom, a place for imag­i­na­tive play. The tran­si­tion be­tween the two was re­al­ized by a trol­ley that spoke not with words but with mu­sic, notes from a ce­lesta that were un­der­stood as lan­guage. “I re­ally feel that [in] the open­ing re­al­ity of the pro­gram we deal with the stuff that dreams are made of,” Rogers said. “And then in the Neigh­bor­hood of Make-Be­lieve, we deal with it as if it were a dream. And then when it comes back to me (at the end), we deal with a sim­ple in­ter­pre­ta­tion of the dream .... Any­thing can hap­pen in make-be­lieve, and we can talk about any­thing in re­al­ity. Mar­garet used to say, ‘What­ever is men­tion­able is man­age­able.’” Each episode’s seem­ingly dis­parate threads—a visit to a store, a story told while feed­ing fish, or a con­flict be­tween King Fri­day and the peo­ple—came to­gether to make res­o­nant points, with the char­ac­ters in both Make-Be­lieve and the real-life neigh­bor­hood per­form­ing acts of kind­ness and em­pa­thy. Rogers him­self, in songs such as “It’s You I Like,” re­peat­edly stressed his view­ers’ value as in­di­vid­u­als and their re­la­tion­ship to oth­ers. “It’s such a good feel­ing,” he sang in an­other song, “to know you’re in tune.”

Each episode had an al­most litur­gi­cal out­line: open­ing greet­ing, in­vo­ca­tions of friends and fam­ily, fol­lowed by a phys­i­cal move­ment through the set’s spa­ces. In the kitchen, Rogers might eat a ba­nana or draw stars, or learn from a friend how to make pa­per hats. He con­cluded where he started, chang­ing back into street clothes and singing a dis­missal, with a last spo­ken note on the value of car­ing for oth­ers, fol­lowed by a song: “I’ll think of you when I’m not here, ’cause think­ing of peo­ple makes them seem near.” He saw Mis­ter Rogers’ Neigh­bor­hood as a faith­ful com­pan­ion to young peo­ple and even a daily sem­i­nar for par­ents, who of­ten have to be re­minded that par­ent­ing isn’t re­ally about them.

All those famed fac­tory vis­its—to see how bread or crayons or dolls get made—of­ten showed the cardi­gan­wear­ing scion of fac­tory own­ers mar­veling at the ma­chines and work­ers around him, con­nect­ing work to the feel­ings of the peo­ple do­ing it. “That’s a won­der­ful thought,” Rogers says to a woman who de­scribes re­call­ing her grand­mother’s bak­ing each time she walks through the foot­ball-field-sized bak­ing room in Nabisco’s gra­ham cracker fac­tory, in Pitts­burgh’s East Lib­erty neigh­bor­hood. “Some­body who re­ally fed you, and here you are mak­ing mil­lions of things for peo­ple to eat.” The point was not what was be­ing made, but the way that Rogers en­coun­tered it, and the care with which the worker made it. Rogers’s phys­i­cal ap­proach in these set­tings—his pose and pos­ture seem to en­act con­cen­tra­tion— of­ten re­called Mc­Far­land’s direc­tions to a sculp­tor who vis­ited her preschool class: “I don’t want you to teach sculpt­ing. All I want you to do is love clay in front of the chil­dren.”

Both

Won’t You Be My Neigh­bor? and The Good Neigh­bor fo­cus on Rogers’s 1969 tes­ti­mony to Congress on be­half of pub­lic tele­vi­sion. In Neville’s film, it is laid out as a nail-bit­ing sur­prise: a hum­ble kid’s TV show host ver­sus a pow­er­ful Se­nate com­mit­tee chair­man, John Pa­s­tore, look­ing to bud­get-cut and cen­sor. In King’s book, though, we learn that the PBS ex­ec­u­tives know­ingly put forth their lead player: Rogers had al­ready hard­knuck­led his way into his PBS slot with in­ven­tive pub­lic-pri­vate fi­nanc­ing, and his pub­lic ap­pear­ances at PBS af­fil­i­ates ne­ces­si­tated crowd con­trol.

“I’m very much con­cerned, as I know you are, about what’s be­ing de­liv­ered to our chil­dren in this coun­try,” Rogers told Pa­s­tore. A life­long reg­is­tered Repub­li­can, Rogers knew

his ad­ver­sary—a so­cially con­ser­va­tive Demo­crat who pushed for nu­clear test bans and cam­paign fi­nance re­form and was him­self a fa­mously deft or­a­tor—and merely made him an of­fer he couldn’t refuse. “For fif­teen years I’ve tried, in this coun­try, and Canada, to present what I feel is a mean­ing­ful ex­pres­sion of care,” Rogers tes­ti­fied. In footage from the hear­ing, the sen­a­tor vis­i­bly re­laxes his guard, say­ing, “Well, I’m sup­posed to be a pretty tough guy, and this is the first time I’ve had goose­bumps for the last two days.” PBS is saved. Both the book and the film work hard to ad­just the no­tion that Rogers was, as Neville put it in a pro­mo­tional in­ter­view, “a two-di­men­sional mil­que­toast who spoke in warm bro­mides.” In this en­deavor King seems ob­sessed with Rogers’s sex­u­al­ity—though to be fair, a lot of peo­ple are, with the ap­par­ent ex­cep­tion of his wife, Joanne, to whom he was mar­ried for fifty years. King seems to al­most re­luc­tantly set­tle on “an­drog­y­nous” when he might have just left it with what Rogers told a friend: “Well, you know, I must be right smack in the mid­dle. Be­cause I have found women at­trac­tive, and I have found men at­trac­tive.” This would sat­isfy a preschooler but is too loose for King, who treats his sub­ject’s sex life as if he were con­duct­ing a po­lice in­ves­ti­ga­tion: “There was no dou­ble life. And with­out ex­cep­tion, close as­so­ciates con­cluded that Fred Rogers was ab­so­lutely faith­ful to his mar­riage vows.”

The film like­wise in­sists he lived as a straight man, even though it seems odd to so rig­or­ously af­firm Rogers’s straight­ness when we are talk­ing about a show whose host sang, “I like you as you are.” How great, in the Neigh­bor­hood of Make-Be­lieve, for a young child to hear Lady Aber­lin tell Mr. Skunk that he is OK no mat­ter how he smells, or to hear her tell Daniel, who wor­ries he is too tame, that he is not too tame at all? Yet in Neville’s film, François Clem­mons, the opera singer who played Of­fi­cer Clem­mons on the show, tes­ti­fies that, as a gay man, he would have known if Fred Rogers was gay: “I spent enough time with him that if there was a gay vibe I would have picked it up.”

This state­ment turns out to be com­pli­cated by the fact that Rogers ini­tially asked Clem­mons to hide his sex­u­al­ity for fear of scar­ing spon­sors, and en­cour­aged him to marry (which he did). Clem­mons says that he bears no grudge and ap­pre­ci­ated his chance to be a role model for African-Amer­i­can chil­dren. He and Rogers sat to­gether with their feet in a child-sized swim­ming pool twice on the show, once in 1969, amid the racial un­rest of the era, when Rogers dried Clem­mons’s feet—a ref­er­ence to Christ wash­ing the feet of his apos­tles, likely not lost on PBS view­ers in the South. The sec­ond time was more than twenty years later, in 1993, long af­ter Clem­mons had di­vorced his wife and founded, with Rogers’s sup­port, the Har­lem Spir­i­tual Ensem­ble and the Amer­i­can Ne­gro Spir­i­tual Re­search Foun­da­tion, both ded­i­cated to “pre­serv­ing and per­form­ing the Amer­i­can Ne­gro Spir­i­tual in its orig­i­nal form.” The sec­ond pool scene—shown but not dis­cussed in the film—was Clem­mons’s last ap­pear­ance on the pro­gram. He en­ters the pool af­ter Mis­ter Rogers plays a short film show­ing chil­dren spend­ing time with friends, par­ents, and grand­par­ents and end­ing with a mother sit­ting qui­etly with her new­born, watch­ing

her baby sleep. “I’m think­ing about many dif­fer­ent ways of say­ing I love you,” Rogers tells Clem­mons in the episode. “You’ll find many ways to un­der­stand what love is,” Clem­mons sings. Rogers then notes the way mem­o­ries are called up by ac­tions, like be­ing in a pool. At the show’s close, Clem­mons re­turns to sing a spir­i­tual, with Rogers beam­ing. “I’m so proud of you, François!” Rogers says at one point. It’s hard not to see it as an apol­ogy.

The neigh­bor­hood it­self is miss­ing from both The Good Neigh­bor and Won’t You Be My Neigh­bor? Pitts­burgh, with its com­bi­na­tion of in­dus­trial prow­ess and phil­an­thropic largesse, was the per­fect place for a fac­tory owner’s boy to do good. But as Rogers came of age, the Steel City’s in­dus­trial base col­lapsed, along with Amer­ica’s. In the course of Mis­ter Rogers’ Neigh­bor­hood’s three-decade run, real-life mu­sic shops, bak­eries, and re­pair stores were closed or re­placed by chains. The gra­ham cracker fac­tory that Rogers vis­ited in 1983 was closed by 1998, the work moved to Mex­ico; the build­ing it­self has re­cently been con­verted into con­dos, and lo­cal busi­nesses con­tinue to close.

Rogers was part of this col­lapse as chair­man of the board of the La­trobe Die Cast­ing Com­pany, one of his fa­ther’s in­vest­ments. In 1977 he played what King calls “an un­will­ing and un­happy role in a ma­jor la­bor strike,” send­ing a mailer to strik­ing work­ers say­ing that his fa­ther had willed the profits of the com­pany to char­ity, which wasn’t ex­actly right, and avoid­ing men­tion of his own po­si­tion on the board. Two years later, Rogers was fea­tured in a Wall Street Jour­nal pro­file un­der the head­line “Loved by Kids for His TV ‘Neigh­bor­hood,’ Mr. Rogers is a Hit in Board­rooms, Too.” Rogers de­clined to dis­cuss the strike but crit­i­cized the union’s ex­is­tence. “There never was a union while my dad was alive,” Rogers said. “Dif­fer­ences of opin­ion were set­tled un­der the ap­ple tree.”

Though his show mod­eled pa­tience and hu­mil­ity, he wasn’t a saint, in other words. And yet the film evades com­pli­ca­tions by con­cen­trat­ing on the most ex­treme cri­tique, Fox News’s at­tacks on Rogers as the ul­ti­mate le­nient lib­eral par­ent. “Let me ask you some­thing,” says Brian Kilmeade to a guest. “Mis­ter Rogers and the nar­cis­sis­tic so­ci­ety that he gave birth to be­cause he told ev­ery kid that they were im­por­tant—do you be­lieve his phi­los­o­phy de­stroyed a gen­er­a­tion?”

Read­ing be­tween the lines of King’s biog­ra­phy, one is struck by the ways in which Rogers’s cre­ation was a reaction to se­vere re­stric­tions and dis­con­nec­tions in his child­hood, the ways that his par­ents’ phil­an­thropic work (they bought shoes for his class­mates, for in­stance) set him apart from the kids on the play­ground. Al­most in re­sponse to his own wealth, Rogers was arm­ing kids with mod­els of self-gen­er­ated joy and won­der­ment, re­hears­ing them for dis­ap­point­ments, and con­sis­tently treat­ing love less as a noun than a verb, with which one makes space for neigh­bors, and ac­knowl­edges their sto­ries and feel­ings.

The as­pect of Rogers’s pro­gram that ought to have ter­ri­fied Fox News was the rad­i­cally col­lab­o­ra­tive Neigh­bor­hood of Make-Be­lieve. In dream­like Make-

Be­lieve women do stereo­typ­i­cally male work, and vice versa. Lady Elaine Fairchilde was a fem­i­nist icon who flew to space be­fore NASA sent Sally Ride, one con­sis­tently op­posed to the mad­den­ing pa­tri­arch, King Fri­day. Mayor Mag­gie, a black woman, runs the neigh­bor­ing town, a white man her as­sis­tant. Most as­ton­ish­ingly, when Make-Be­lieve is faced with in­tractable prob­lems, the adults ask the young peo­ple for ad­vice and heed them, with the so­lu­tions of­ten de­liv­ered by Lady Aber­lin, a me­di­a­tor in Make-Be­lieve, play­ing the part of par­ent to Rogers’s child­like Daniel. Betty Aber­lin, as she is known in real life, is sus­pi­ciously ab­sent from both the film and the book. Neville and King make Mis­ter Rogers’ Neigh­bor­hood sound like a one-man show, while cast mem­bers re­call it hav­ing been a

team ef­fort. About Aber­lin’s con­tri­bu­tions, Michael Hor­ton, who did pup­pet voices, told King:

Betty Aber­lin is a bril­liant per­son; the pro­gram would not have worked with­out her. There were a cou­ple of times when Betty felt that she knew Fred enough to say, “This might be of­fen­sive to hand­i­capped peo­ple,” “This might be of­fen­sive to women,” “This might be of­fen­sive to gay peo­ple.”

Aber­lin es­pe­cially loved the op­eras, which were de­vel­op­men­tally sen­si­tive but ex­pan­sive and silly, and in which prob­lems in the com­mu­nity were worked out in re­mark­able ways, like when a hum­ming­bird (Lady Elaine) used the tremen­dous power of her tiny wings to save Bub­ble­land from a bub­ble-bust­ing wind­storm, brought on by greed. When the TV cur­tain fell, Rogers said, “They all found out that friends are far more im­por­tant than things.”

In a se­ries of tweets a few weeks af­ter the film grossed $20 mil­lion—the high­est-earn­ing bi­o­graph­i­cal doc­u­men­tary of all time—Aber­lin listed the rea­sons she chose not to par­tic­i­pate, chief among them a re­fusal first, she says, by Rogers and then by his pro­duc­tion com­pany af­ter his death to al­low the ac­tors to con­tinue with what Aber­lin refers to as the Fred Rogers “min­istry,” Neigh­bor­hood-de­rived per­for­mances in­tended to reach chil­dren in mean­ing­ful ways, by stag­ing the op­eras, for ex­am­ple. Re­cently, the Fred Rogers Com­pany, re­named for him af­ter his death, sold the rights to one of his songs to be used in Google’s new Pixel 3 phone com­mer­cial, and

a biopic star­ring Tom Hanks is now be­ing filmed. “Fred was a ge­nius, and he was also a miser,” Aber­lin wrote on Twit­ter. In her view, “Those who made the doc­u­men­tary, wrote the biog­ra­phy, & those now mak­ing the Tom Hanks film are adorn­ing them­selves with the virtues of the pro­gram PBS took off the air, and mak­ing their own art out of our life-work.” She prefers, she writes, to be re­mem­bered in Make-Be­lieve rather than “par­tic­i­pat­ing in ha­giog­ra­phy for a man who be­gan as a col­league.”

King ar­gues that Daniel Tiger’s Neigh­bor­hood, an an­i­mated PBS Kids show cre­ated in 2012, “cap­tures the spirit of Rogers and ad­vances his legacy.” It’s un­der­stand­able that the Fred Rogers Com­pany would now want to pro­mote his legacy, as they de­velop shows like Daniel Tiger’s Neigh­bor­hood, Peg + Cat, and Odd Squad along with re­lated apps. But the film and book blur the dis­tinc­tion be­tween art and com­merce, and the new shows are born of the mer­can­til­ism of the Fred Rogers Com­pany, not the art of its orig­i­nal artis­tic di­rec­tor. It’s not hard to imag­ine what Mar­garet Mc­Far­land would say about the dif­fer­ence be­tween watch­ing a nar­ra­tive tele­vi­sion pro­gram and play­ing with the Daniel Tiger’s Neigh­bor­hood app, which feels less like an emo­tional ex­change than a dis­trac­tion. Their biog­ra­phy-ori­ented mar­ket­ing seems to go against what Rogers was say­ing, es­pe­cially in his later years, when he be­moaned how the in­creas­ing noise in Amer­i­can so­ci­ety ham­pered our abil­ity to merely be present with one an­other.

In De­cem­ber 2002 Rogers was di­ag­nosed with stom­ach can­cer, and he died the fol­low­ing Fe­bru­ary. In his fi­nal days he read the Bi­ble, which he had of­ten read along with the work of his great friend Henri Nouwen, the Catholic priest who wrote that be­ing in a com­mu­nity was like be­ing in a mo­saic of stones, no sin­gle stone able to tell the group’s story. Af­ter re­ceiv­ing his di­ag­no­sis, Rogers had man­aged to give his last com­mence­ment speech, at Dart­mouth. Still the preacher, he re­cited the lyrics to his song “It’s You I Like,” and com­mented on the text, re­mind­ing the crowd not just how far he had taken TV from pie-throw­ing but how thor­oughly he had il­lus­trated the drama in the seem­ingly or­di­nary, the stage on which most of our adult lives are set:

And what that ul­ti­mately means, of course, is that you don’t ever have to do any­thing sen­sa­tional for peo­ple to love you. When I say it’s you I like, I’m talk­ing about that part of you that knows that life is far more than any­thing you can ever see, or hear, or touch. That deep part of you, that al­lows you to stand for those things, with­out which hu­mankind can­not sur­vive.

Fred Rogers and François Clem­mons in an episode of Mis­ter Rogers’ Neigh­bor­hood, 1993

Mar­garet Hamil­ton as Princess Mar­garet H. Witch with King Fri­day, Chef Brock­ett, and Lady Aber­lin in the Neigh­bor­hood of Make-Be­lieve, 1975

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