Remembering Robin

This marks the sixth anniversary of the tragic death of Robin Williams.

Robin Williams had been my favorite actor growing up. I found comfort in characters like “Patch Adams,” laughter in films like “Flubber,” and deep humility in moments from “Dead Poet’s Society.” He was my first impression of what it meant to be an entertainer—a true renaissance man. He could have me feeling joyful, melancholy, or inspired, all in the same breath. I remember being amazed that a person could be so vulnerable and emotionally available to a camera just to help people come to terms with their own feelings. 

I had been planning my trip to Massachusetts for weeks before his passing. It had been approximately three months since the death of Robin Williams, and I was in Boston Commons Park sitting on the bench from “Good Will Hunting,” crying. I had already made a list of all the filming locations I wanted to visit, including L Street Tavern which had since turned into an informal museum. The walls were adorned with photos of the cast, stills from the movie, and labels on the seats of where these iconic characters once sat. There was a surplus of photos of Robin on the walls, and the conversations overheard at the bar were those of shared memories of him amongst the patrons who came by to pay their respects.

“Mrs. Doubtfire” was another big hit in our house throughout the years. My grandfather used to put it on whenever I would go visit him, and at some point, Robin and my grandfather became one-in-the-same in my mind. They both had an infectious joy and always made me feel safe and comforted. When the news broke that Robin had passed, it gutted me and dropped me to my knees. I sobbed for hours because I felt like I had lost someone that I knew. I had lost someone that I had loved.

The bench in the park had turned into a memorial for the late performer. It was covered in flowers, hand-written messages, and lipstick stains. It looked like something that you would expect to see for someone who had reached the celebrity level of Elvis—though Robin may have been a king in his own right. I found a safety pin on the ground and kneeled down to etch in my own tribute. I took a moment to read over the messages that people from all over the world had left for him. I cried as I struggled with what to write, unsure of how to capture a lifetime of emotion into one sentence. 

As a child, and even more so as an adult, Robin’s films speak to me in a way unlike most others. There is a movie for every occasion and every kind of feeling. Whether it’s mystery-thriller like “Insomnia,” a goofy family flick like “RV,” or a comedy classic like “The Birdcage,” I find myself now—six years after his death—feeling more grateful than ever that I can still feel connected to him through his work. Robin had a certain kind of magic to him that always made his films feel so personal. They never felt like an actor just phoning in a performance or a comedian just trying to be funny. His characters were fathers, doctors, presidents, and genies. There are pieces of him accessible to every kind of person, regardless of age. He had a career that spanned over forty years and yet his work feels timeless. Robin pushed the boundaries of what a performer could do and set out to achieve more than just entertaining his audience.

Back in Boston, I settled on a simple “Nanu-Nanu” for my inscription and took a seat on the bench. I grabbed my phone and pulled up the scene from the film. I started crying at the mere sight of him on my screen. As Sean talks to Will about his late wife, he tells him that he could never understand the idea of feeling that God had put an angel on this earth, just for you. It gave me pause, as it felt almost like that’s who Robin was. An angel who was put here for us—for all of us. I put my phone away and stood up to look at the bench one last time. The once-still leaves rustled with the blow of the wind and it felt like part of him was there, still. I smiled as I left the park, hearing his words echo in my mind: your move, chief.