O Captain, My Captain . . .

The first time I heard Smokey Robinson’s “Tears of a Clown,” I was caught by the contradiction within the image. “Clowns don’t cry,” I thought as a young boy. “They have white faces, red noses, funny shoes and are always making people laugh.” Little did I understand then what I know now, that costumes hide as much as entertain.

The news of Robin Williams’ suicide only brings that truth to the forefront once again. He was one of the funniest actors I have ever watched. My love for him began with the silliness of Mork and Mindy, but grew in depth as he inspired everything I wanted to be as a teacher in Dead Poets Society. In Good Morning, Vietnam, he showed the need to make others laugh in awful times as well as reminded that well-intentioned defiance has its place. His role as the counselor in Good Will Hunting helped me want to do more with my life than paint-by-numbers, and, of course, the Genie in Aladdin still almost makes me wet my pants.

Behind it all was a comedic genius. Without a white face, red nose and funny shoes he made us laugh at our core (Actually in Patch Adams he used those things as well!), but now we know the clown had tears, deep tears, the kind that can’t find their way to the surface, the kind that eat their way deeper into one’s soul.

I appreciate all the costumes and performances, but I regret that he, like so many others, was performing all day long. How I wish he could have known the happiness and laughter he gave to us. Now, I pray, the masks and costumes can come off and he can rest in peace.

(When you are next in need of a comedic pick-me-up, search for and watch Robin Williams' description of the founding of golf.)